


the sun rises in the east, but we came from the west

by residentdogenthusiast



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Addiction, Adrienne/Martha not a background ship, Adultery, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - War, Alternate Universe - World War II, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Baker AU, Bets, Bullying, Cambaby, Can I Write Canon? Probably Not., Car Accidents, Cathedrals, Character Death, Cheating, Choking, Christmas Presents, Cuddling, Daddy Kink, Depression, Derogatory Language Towards Addicts, Descriptions of Violent Abuse, Desecration of a Holy Place, Divorce, Domestic, Drug Dealing, Dubious Consent, Dueling, Egging Someone's House, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evil James Reynolds, F/F, F/M, Feminine!Laf, Flirting, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Gay Sex, Guns, Heartbreak, Hide and Seek, Homophobia, I add tags as i go, I swear to God, Immigration, Implied Daddy Kink, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mafia AU, Marliza, Marriage Counselor AU, Marriage Proposal, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Prostitution, Mentions of Substance Abuse, Minor Character Death, Misgendering, Mistress, Mom!Angelica, Multi, Murder, Mutual Pining, Neighbors AU, Nonbinary Marquis de Lafayette, Nyctophobia, OT3, Organized Crime, PTSD, Physical domestic violence, Pining, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Power Outage, Prison AU, Prison Stereotypes, Professor AU, Professor George Washington, Protective Siblings, Racism, Rape, Rarepair, Secret Santa, Self-Hatred, Serial Killer, Serial killer Burr, Sexting... Attempt?, Shapeshifting, Slurs, Smut, Snow Day, Snowball Fight, Storms, Sugar Baby, Sugar Daddy, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Talk of Abortions, Teacher-Student Relationship, Thaurens, Threats of Deportation, Toxic Relationship, Transphobia, Trapped In A Closet, Triggers, Underage Drug Use, Underage Relationship, Underage Sex, Unrequited Love, Violence, War Crimes, Washette - Freeform, Whump, Workaholic, Young/Old Relationship, abortions, accidental misgendering, affair, butch!Peggy, disassociating, drug relapse, graphic depictions of death, illegal immigrant, mentions of adultery, mild homophobia, political scandals, poly ships, porn star, rebellion AU, self-deprecation, slutshaming, smut implied, smut without a plot, soldier!Peggy, the third chapter is dedicated to them, verbal domestic violence, visa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-05 21:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 58
Words: 119,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12802314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/residentdogenthusiast/pseuds/residentdogenthusiast
Summary: A series of drabbles ranging from different verses. (Previously 'I'm Fucked.')





	1. Expect the Unexpected (Alex/John)

**Author's Note:**

> Come shoot prompts at me, or yell at me or demand more gay founding fathers on tumblr: ofmenialidealisms
> 
> Prompt: 'When you said you were a shapeshifter, I pictured everything but a turtle!'

It takes Alexander a full twenty-four minutes and thirty two seconds to stop looking at John and bursting into gut busting, rolling on the floor laughter. During this time, the freckled boy sits opposing him with such a heated glare, if looks could kill Alex would’ve been burned alive on his spot. Which makes for some pretty amusing imagery when he remembers that his boyfriend is a witch. 

It takes two full hours for Alex to stop asking John to ‘do the thing’ again. He simply can’t help it─he genuinely thinks this entire thing is  _ absolutely fucking ridiculous _ while simultaneously remaining the most fitting thing about John and that’s just why he loves it so much. Besides, it wasn’t everyday your shapeshifter boyfriend turned into a turtle on your living room couch.

“D-do,” he stutters out between wheezing laughter, this time holding up his phone's camera to his boyfriend─who looks absolutely petulant on the screen of his iPhone 7+. John lifts the painted black nail on his middle finger up to the camera while Alex takes the few minutes to get his breath back. “do it one more time. For the vine.”

“ _ No _ , Alex!” John exclaims, crossing his arms with defiance. His hazel eyes drop to his toes, and his bottom lip forms a pout. He’s not genuinely offended of course─John isn’t that sensitive─he just really,  _ really  _ was getting tired of doing the same shift over and over again. “I’ve done it like, a hundred times!”

“One more, one more!” Alex pleads, lowering the screen just slightly to stare at him over the top of the phone. His lips form their own pout, and the older of the two has to concede that Alexander’s pout is way more refined that his. John sighs reluctantly. How could he ever say no to  _ that  _ face? “I promise, I promise, one more time!”

And so he willingly shifts, though he feels a little ridiculous looking up at his boyfriend from his craned neck. He doesn’t have to do it for long, though, because Alex falls over onto the floor in a fit of giggles─phone landing a few feet away, with the low audio of the still video playing on loop. John vows to delete it from Alex’s vine later, when he’s asleep.

**“ **When you told me you were a shapeshifter, I pictured everything but a** ** _turtle_** **!** ” **


	2. The Issues With Dating A Shifter (Alex/John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goddamnit, John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can be a read as a continuation of the last one? 
> 
> Prompt: ‘I shifted into a turtle and now I’m on my back for fucks sake stop laughing and help me!’

John doesn’t exactly remember what he’d been trying to do. He knows that he needed to be as small as possible to accomplish it, and the first animal that had come to his mind was his favorite one─a turtle, of course. He remembers hearing Lafayette tell him that he was going to get hurt, that he needed to be careful, that he shouldn’t shift into such small animals without someone to help him. Especially since the action of shapeshifting was so exhausting and often times John would stuck in forms for hours on end, attempting to conjure up the energy to get back to normal. He hadn’t listened to his french friend, as per usual, and had waved off Laf’s concern. 

And he guesses that’s why he’s on his back, in turtle form, in the middle of their kitchen. With no one home. Hercules and Alex were at work, and Lafayette─after checking on him several times to make sure he was alright─had run to the store to get groceries while he had the time. Afterall, it wasn’t very often that all of their roommates managed to be occupied long enough for them to actually get something done. 

So John is stuck. And he doesn’t even know how long he’s going to be stuck for. When it came to Lafayette and shopping, they could be out for hours. And Alexander and Hercules both tended to work late. Plus, he’d blown off Peggy for their usual video game session hours ago, saying he had ‘real important work to do’, so she definitely wouldn’t be coming over.

Wiggling around on his shell, John attempts to turn himself over for the billionth time that evening─cursing Lafayette’s asshole familiar, Roxxie the Cat, for turning him over in the first place. The cat herself is sitting on the dining room table─which the little fucker knows he’d swat her for if he was in human shape─staring at him with smug eyes and licking the back of her paws like the literal cat that got the cream.

_ I am going to have a strong talking to to Laf about that fucking cat, _ John thinks, wriggling his little legs in an effort to get up. He leans forward with great effort, tries his best to somehow miraculously get his heavy fucking shell onto his feet and… futile.

Laurens has closed his eyes and is ready to accept the sweat embrace of death when… 

… cacophonous laughter. Laughter! Filling his household! Which means there are people! That can save him! 

He gets so excited that he makes a small squeak, despite himself, which just causes the laughter to grow in volume. When he turns his head and body enough to catch a glimpse of who is laughing, he gets a full image of Alexander leaning against the doorway for support.

“Holy fucking shit! Unbelievable! This is the best moment of my life!”

John stares at him for a few moments, waiting for the laughter to subside and his beloved to come to his turtle rescue. But he doesn’t. No, Alexander fucking Hamilton stands in the doorway of their kitchen laughing his ass off at the predicament, not bothering for a single moment to think about John. Or think about helping John, rather, ‘cause the little turtle is sure he’s thinking about John plenty.

Roxxie gives a loud mewl and stretches her back, giving another successful smug look at John before jumping from the table and trotting out into the backyard through the doggie door. John watches her go, with a flick of her perfectly white little tail, and makes a silent vow to seal the fucker out there later.

He has more important issues, now, however.

In the time its taken for Roxxie to mock him, Alexander has managed to pull up snapchat and is currently snapping about his boyfriend’s predicament with a zeal that John has never seen before.

“G-guys!” he says into the camera, tears streaming down his red face. “I come home, right, from work. And it’s really quiet for once and─ _ John fucking Laurens _ , ladies and gentlemen!”

_ For fucks sake, stop laughing and help me! _ John wants to scream, and smack the phone from his lovers hands. However, he can’t. ‘Cause he’s a fucking turtle. And he can’t shift for another few hours, at  _ least. _

“Laf texted me and told me this would happen,” Alex says, once his phone is safely in his back pocket. He approaches John, still giggling quietly to himself, and scoops the small turtle into his hands─flipping John over onto his feet in the process. “That’s why I came home early. This is fucking hilarious. And adorable. But don’t you fucking glare at me, mister, we’ve told you about shifting home alone! You’ve earned this humiliation!”

John sighs.

God, he was gonna kill that cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning no not all of these are Supernatural!AU I made the drabble list in Halloween (I called October ‘Halloween’ ohm y god) so a lot of the prompts are halloween themed sorry


	3. A Speck of Snow (Adrienne/Martha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my new favorite ship tbh
> 
> Prompt: We’re in public I am not going to start a snowball figh--that was my favorite type of coffee you just knocked over it is on.

Adrienne gets the idea from Lafayette, of which Martha should’ve guessed would be at the bottom of this. When weren’t those two conspiring to do something together, or giving the other idea for getting in trouble? She should’ve guessed that she would be the next victim when Lafayette snuck up on George and dumped a handful of snow down the back of his shirt─ somehow resulting in an all out snowball fight between the group of friends gathered in Central Park on that freezing December evening. The cacophonous laughter that came from the surrounding group of people enjoying a fairly nice winter evening in the park, the way they all pointedly look towards Adrienne when George had managed to shimmy most of the ice out of his shirt.

Martha should’ve guessed, truly. She was too much of a bystander. Simply minding her own business, with her hazelnut coffee and her _150 e-mails_ to respond to before the sun was finished setting _._ And with them, becoming too much of a bystander meant becoming too much of a target. It was the prime reason that Burr had wriggled out of his shell when around them. It was better to be in the mix of things.

“Oh, Marty~!” Adrienne’s sweet voice had drawled out mockingly, thick with her French accent and still recovering from a particularly awful bout with the cold. Martha barely has time to muse that for someone with such a poor immune system, she sure loved to expose herself to illness, before the first snowball explodes against her cheek.

Martha stops short when it does, nearly losing from her balance. Not from the force of the ball─no, of course not, but from _surprise_! She really _shouldn’t_ have been so caught off guard, it’s Adrienne! But it was probably the principle of it. Afterall, what had she done to get involved with the fiasco that was their group of friends at the moment? She’d been minding her business, remember? Musing about her girlfriend’s poor ways of taking care of her health, enjoying her coffee, watching Hercules attempt to wrestle John to the ground.

The snowball that comes after the first leaves her… less surprised, more _annoyed_ . Honestly, what was Adrienne expecting of her? To start a snowball fight? _Hardly!_ Martha Washington is the COO of a multibillion dollar fashion company, has been the face of TIME magazine several times and is in public! Where people could easily spot her acting like some untrained animal in the snow! How uncouth, how _improper_ , for her to resort to something of that sort. In public!

“Absolutely not, Adrienne,” Martha says with a warning tone, trying to make her voice sound as intimidating as it did when she was yelling at her interns. It is awfully difficult, however, with the love of her life giving her such an _adorably_ ‘innocent’ pout. Adrienne has scooped up more snow by now, is pressing the cold grey New York slush in her gloved palms─attempting to turn the mess of snow into another snowball. The older of the two women cringes just imagining that getting on her new coat. “Don’t you _dare_ , Adri!”

“Don’t I dare, _what_?” the Frenchwoman asks, an innocent look on her face but a mischievous gleam in her hazel eyes. She takes a step closer, raises her left fist─which now holds a clump of grey snow resembling a ball─as well as her eyebrow. A challenge, a dare to _make her_ not throw that snowball.

Martha doesn’t rise to the bait, obviously much to Adrienne’s disappointment.

“Don’t you throw that! **We are in public,** and I am wearing a new coat, **I am not about to start a snowball figh─** ” Martha is cut off unceremoniously by the slushball─it’s hardly snow, really─hitting not her face, not her new coat, but her _cup of coffee_. Her _favorite_ kind of coffee. Her triple shot espresso, with hazelnut and cream and extra sugar. Her _drug_. Her drug, besides Adrienne, of course. Sometimes, on the bad days, her will to get out of bed. The impact of the snowball on the cup, paired with the minimal liquid remaining inside, sends the remaining coffee slapping against the ground. The lid pops off and the hot coffee spreads into the snow─melting whatever meets its warm, sugary embrace and simultaneously ruining any chances of salvaging it.

“Oops!” Adrienne laughs, knowing that Martha is far too vindictive to let this slide. Somewhere in the background, the younger French girl hears her friends ‘ooh’ at the obvious invitation for snow-war and smirks to herself. Another dare, another invitation, for the woman to step down from the challenge.

Adri cackles gleefully and begins running when Martha leans down to scoop a handful of snow into her expensive gloves. The younger of the two takes off sprinting, boots crunching the filthy New York snow as she darts around her friends─who’ve all gone back to whatever they’d been doing before Adrienne decided to challenge the stone cold, impenetrable Martha Washington. She can feel Martha’s footsteps thudding after her, can hear her heart pounding in her ears, and _oh god she loves this woman_ and─

_Thud!_

One moment, Adrienne is completing a 100 yard dash across Central Park and the next she’s face first in the snow, with a grinning Martha on top of her. Adri rolls over after the shock of what Martha had just done wears off, so that she’s on her back and Martha is on her stomach, and laughs in surprise at the woman.

“Did you just _tackle_ me?” she asks, tone laced with both disbelief at the fact that ‘heartless businesswoman’ Martha Washington just tackled her and awe at things this woman would do to accomplish her goals. She receives a small nod in return, as Martha is still struggling to catch her breath, and laughs at her lover. “So, what are you gonna do to me?”

“C’mere, you fuckin’ heathen,” Martha pants out, before capturing Adrienne’s lips in hers lovingly. Adrienne smiles against the kiss, smiles at the conflicting tastes of hazelnut coffee and _raspberry flavored lipstick_ and smiles at the fact that Martha is _hers_. Hazel eyes flutter closed and her fingers find Martha’s long dark locks at the scalp, pulling her closer into the crushing kiss. It never is until they’re kissing that Adri realizes just how much she needs Martha’s kisses, needs them like she needs oxygen in her lungs.

And it’s never until they’re done kissing that she realizes just how absolutely cold she is.

“You got a little speck of snow, babe,” Martha says, raising a hand is if to dab at the Adrienne’s face. Adrienne is so distracted by her eyes, at the specks of blue that lie in her irises, at the way her eyes crinkle just slightly at the corners when she smiles… she doesn’t even begin to see the attack coming.

“Where is it?” Adri asks, still in a loving daze while staring at the love of her life.

" _Here_!” Martha exclaims, laughing as she shoves the slushy snow in her girlfriend’s face before getting up and darting off.


	4. Darker Skies By The Night (Charles/Peggy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was still happiness to be found in which the undead eat people with pulses. Except for when there wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Zombie!AU ‘You just got bitten and you want me to sing and all I can think of is ‘you are my sunshine’

Though every moment felt like it was moving at the speed of one million years, Peggy will later muse that it all happened so _quickly_. She knows should have been watching him, and that she should have been _protecting_ him better. He was just one rookie with a belt of rusted throwing knives and a double-barrel that his father had given him─he had never even seen the actual field before, let alone dealt with actual fucking infected. She had enough guns and ammunition to put down a Russian army, had been training for the apocalypse since the outbreak began when she was twelve. But she wasn't watching him, because they were unexpectedly overrun and she had other priorities like her big sister who had almost slipped from her vantage point on top of an abandoned eighteen-wheeler and fell to her death of hungry infected mouths. She knew that he'd be okay for the time being, she knew that he could handle himself if he had Alexander along with him. Hell, Alex had single-handedly taken out an entire hordes while allowing his team members to go rescue those in danger before. To _him_ this was a game of kickball. He’d look out for Charles.  
  
But then, right before the horde starts to disperse, it happens. One minute Charlie is doing perfectly fine, back to back with Alexander and facing the flesh-eating freaks with that cocky grin that she loved to look at in the shadows of the night, and the next minute he's screaming out for her in agony and collapsing to the sizzling pavement with a heavy thud. Eliza and Alexander shout in surprise at the same time, watching as he's made into some flesheaters lunch, but for the first two minutes she just stands and stares. She just stares and _watches_ because how does one react to their lover being eaten by disease riddled _freaks_.  
  
Peggy watches stupidly as he's overpowered by two of the infected, and brought to his knees. Even though, he's at his lowest, he doesn't stop fighting. He attempts to push them off, but they're stronger than they look. One uses his distractedness and takes a bite out of his arm, ripping away the flesh and chomping down hungrily. That one gets a knife to the skull, but it's too late─it's saliva is already in his system, the venom is going to start working within seconds. The other is almost immediately disposed of by Alexander, who─up until now─had been distracted with almost dying himself. Charles growls as soon as the threat is gone and falls back, his uninjured hand coming up to hold the bite and attempting to squeeze the already circulating venom out of it. The horde is almost completely dead by this point─five or six more remain, but Eliza and Alexander can handle them─and even if it hadn't been, she wouldn't have given a shit. Peggy jumps from the top of the bright yellow Cadillac that she'd been on top of in her efforts to disperse of as many of the walkers as possible and practically skids towards him, most of her weapons dropping to the ground on the way to him. Eliza was right behind her, she didn't need to worry about her sister anymore.  
  
Peggy reaches him and gloved hands attempt to squeeze out the venom like he’d been doing, but she already knows it's too late for him. She’s too smart of girl, and far too hardened by an apocalypse riddled with cannibalism to think this isn’t the end for him. A chunk of his flesh is missing, bleeding profusely and clotting already. Puddles of thick red slime fall to the ground, the venom slowly turning his blood into a gelatin as the first stages of the turn begin. There's just no way he's going to survive─even if they _could_ stop the venom from circulating in time, his blood would still be a general solid in his body, and he would die from that. Either way, he was screwed from head to toe. Anyone who got bitten was screwed, but she wanted─just this once─for this entire fucked up universe to make an exception. An exception for him.  
  
"Damnit, Charlie," she says through her tears, brushing his dirty black hair from his eyes. His pupils are dilated, the slate grey irises gone from his sight. He's slipping, and he's going fast. She has ten, fifteen minutes with him, tops. And that's only if the blood clotting kills him before the actual infection reaches his brain and turns him. If there wasn’t grime, and blood and tears painting her face, her saddened smile would be so gorgeous. "What’d you do to yourself, huh?"  
  
"Ah, sweetheart. S’not my fault," he smiles back─weakly, because it's hard to smile when you're in this much pain─, but it falters and then slips into a grimace when he sees her crying. His thumb comes up weakly, more blood and dirt smearing her cheeks as he attempts to wipe them away. "Angel, no. C'mon, none of that. We knew it would happen one day."  
  
"But it wasn't supposed to happen to you, you fucking idiot," she whines, her head falling to his chest and sobs slipping from her throat. His heartbeat steadily picks up when it detects her pulse so close to him─he was turning _fast_. She wasn't going to have enough time to say what she wanted to, to him. "It wasn't... it _can't_ end this way. Not when I just got you back. Please, Charles, please."

She's groveling she knows, but at this point, she's willing to do anything to get him back. She'd cut her own heart out if it meant that he could live to see another sundown.  
  
"C'mon, you can't fall apart, sweetheart. You know what you have to do for me," he says, pressing the pistol in her fingers with tremor ridden hands. Tears fall harder and land in big droplets on his face, and Charles can't help but feel guilty. They'd just found happiness─whatever happiness you can get in an earth infested with zombies. It wasn't fair that they lost everything after they'd just gained something.  
  
"Charles, I can't do this, not without you. Please, don't die," she whispers, as a last childish plea to him. It's not like he can just postpone or stop his death. It didn't work that way, unfortunately for the both of them. He laughs at the idea, before coughing. Thick putty-like blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth and falls onto his shirt. She bites her lip to keep from crying out. He was really going to die and there was nothing she could do about it.  
  
"A bit late for that now," he replies, cupping the back of her head and chuckling weakly. She laughs through her tears, attempting to stop his tremors with her hands, holding his other hand in both of hers and praying to whatever god there was that he didn't go out this way.  
  
"I love you, Charlie," she breathes, the words slipping from her lips in a hoarse whisper.  
  
"I love you too, Peggy," he replies, his hand moving to thumb away her tears again. Peggy's hair falls to curtain both their faces as she kisses him, a kiss that tastes of dirt, sweat, blood and tears. Mostly, it tastes of goodbyes and death. She doesn't really realize how hard she's crying until he starts singing, his voice a low rumble in his chest. She presses her ear against his heart again, and it's beating a mile a minute. Five more minutes, maybe. And then he's dead, and she's alone with only her sister. And she's lost the love of her life.  
  
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine─" he breaks off as the first effects of the turn hits him, and pain wretches his body. His body spasms and seizes, his eyes rolling back until they’re nothing but the milky whites. Peggy slaps his cheek desperately, begging for him not to go yet. _Not yet, please god, not yet._  
  
"You make me happy, when skies are grey," she continues, wiping red foam from his lips with her shirt. "You'll never know dear, how much I love you. So please don't take my sunshine away."

A scream of pure agony comes from his throat, and then everything goes quiet. When he moves again, it'll be an attempt to eat her. Her Charles is gone forever─this Charles was nothing but a walking vessel, sent from hell to feast on human flesh. Charles was dead.  
  
"Peggy, we have to go. We have to... put him down," Alexander says, when he realizes that the turn is almost complete. She shakes her head, not quite ready to let go of him. She knew that Charles was gone forever, but she didn't want to fully grasp it yet. It wasn’t that she couldn’t, it was simply that killing him would mean there would be nothing and she wasn’t ready to be left with nothing yet.  
  
"No!" Peggy snaps at the older man, covering his body with her own. She couldn't let go─she wouldn't let go.  
  
"Peggy please. We _can't_ stay here forever. He'll turn. Do you want me to... do it for you?" Her sister, Eliza offers quietly. Peggy grips the pistol tightly in her hand, the cold metal managing to feel hot enough to burn into her palm through her thick gloves. She pulls up her sleeve, glancing at the 'C' burned into her wrist with a lighter. Their one stupid act of love, the symbolism of their relationship. _You can't fall apart, sweetheart. You know what you have to do for me._  
  
"No. He would have... wanted me to do this. No backing down.”

When Charles’ eyes snap open again, Peggy pulls the trigger.

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ship is underrated fucking fight me


	5. Death of a Professor (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some students would be the death of him. This one in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Have you lost your damn mind?!' 'Yes, of course.'

George had always thought, especially when he very first became a Professor at King’s College, that some students would be the death of him. It was considered a prestigious school─either the richest of the rich or the smartest of the smart got in, there was no in between. No room for error in a school where tuition was more than most people made in a year. Competition was rife amongst the students─to be the strongest, the smartest, the most creative or athletic. Of course, all this was as it should.

At least they were motivated.

However, this motivation was bound to be the end of him. Take Alexander Hamilton for an example, who had never gotten below a 90% on assignment in his entire career of schooling─and who had become, of course, a bit of a prodigy as the youngest TA that George had ever hired. He was a full-ride scholarship student from the Caribbean, having earned the scholarship from the people in his village after writing a series of essays regarding the state of their island following a horrifying hurricane. Professor Washington was never reluctant to admit probably one of the smartest students George had ever had in his classroom. He was positively brilliant with the pen, and even moreso on the floor of debates and lectures. He was the student that every scholarship kid aspired to be, and always fell short of becoming.

Or, what about Thomas Jefferson. In the school on a partial athletic scholarship, despite his family having more than enough money to fund the entirety of the schooling necessary for the boys future career in politics. Due to his arrogance, pretentiousness, and the fact that he’s spoiled rotten─George had originally underestimated the young man. But if Thomas was anything, he was determined. Often times scarily so─once hiding out and sleeping inside of George’s classroom in order to steal some extra time with the textbook material and notes George offered. He once nearly had a breakdown after receiving a lower B grade, and was always the first one to volunteer in class.

Yes, students like these two─they were what George could admire. He saw a lot of his ownself and ambitious youthfulness in the fires in their eyes, saw the resolve that had once made him a decorated military officer. It was nice, in this day and age, to see people so steadfast when it came to accomplishing their goals─and don’t get him wrong, he would choose the never-tiring drive over lazy, passion-lacking students anyday. Nonetheless, they were still… honestly, exhausting. Having such hungry students, especially those like Thomas and Alexander that constantly felt the need to prove themselves… it left him spent, as a teacher. He loved his job, but he swore it would be the end of him.

He didn’t account for it to be the end of him in this way.

When Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette was first assigned to his African-American History class, George immediately thought they would be another one of _those_ students. The ones that were terribly snotty, that turned their nose up at any and everyone that didn’t come from money. (Having some of the most driven students in America didn’t mean George also didn’t have some of the most assholish ones.) The students that felt as though they were simply better because they were born with a trust fund, that things should be just that much easier due to the amount of cash that lined their pockets. George had been ready to dismiss them as another headache.

However, he’d been thrown completely off guard after interacting more with the fiery enigma.

Gilbert did come from money, Washington had been correct about that assumption. Mostly because they didn’t make an effort to hide it─if it weren’t the the expensive clothes they wore, it was the way they were always so willing to volunteer their funds in effort to help pay others’ way. When Hercules Mulligan’s full-ride athletic scholarship hadn’t gone through one semester, and he’d come in close danger of being kicked out of King’s? Gilbert had paid the remaining funds for the semester necessary─then, when they’d worked out the issues with the scholarship, had allowed Hercules to keep the refunded money to help the boy pay for his little sister’s schooling. When Maria Lewis─a sociology and psychology major, single mother, and bartender─hadn’t been able to pay for textbooks detrimental to her education, Gilbert had not only bought the books but paid for her semester in full. They were a kind person, always eager to be of some help. That was… not quite unheard of, but certainly rare for George to witness.

Despite the way they flaunted their money, they didn’t seem to have the stereotypical personality of someone born into money. They certainly didn’t act like the spoiled rotten students that threw fits when they got told ‘no’, or didn’t make a good grade of something. They were mostly able to show humility, and remain humble─always choosing instead to ask questions or see what they could do to improve. Nor did they act that simply because they were far richer than George, they knew far more than him. They were always eager to learn─either by following the RA on their floor, Angelica Schuyler, or Alexander, or George around like a lost puppy. (Though George wasn’t blind to the amount of times they blew off their friends for time with him.) Especially when it came to their English─there weren’t many times Washington could think of where Gilbert didn’t have their nose buried in some book, desperate to improve just a little bit more.

This wasn’t to say they were perfect, of course. They were a sweet person, don’t get George mistaken, but they were far from perfect. They were very clingy, and could often times be so suffocating─especially when it came to their need to be around George. Professor Washington could understand─they’d lost their father at age two, and then their mother at age twelve, and then their grandmother at age seventeen. They were bound to be very close to those they felt close to them, but honestly it was draining.

And boy, were they hotheaded. And damn stubborn. Plus, sometimes─though eager to learn─they refused to listen to his basic advice. They didn’t know a lot of simple things most humans had to learn─like how to wash their clothes, or how to pay bill… being coddled from birth would do that. They were extremely violent when pushed to the appropriate limit, had quite the temper that almost got them kicked out of school several times, could be quite manipulative when they felt it was a just cause and─

─and George fell in love with them. He fell in love with the good, with the bad. He _loves_ them.

Once the Professor had realized this, he’d also realized that if he allowed Gilbert to continue to getting closer to him, they would be the death of him. Nevermind the fact that he was in a position of power over them, the fact that they were vulnerable to him due to their lack of father figure and his loving them would definitely be taking advantage of that, or the fact that he was more than twice their age… no, Gilbert would be the death of him in different ways.

This person, this gorgeous fireball of a human being, a stunning electricity that could not… no, _would not_ be tamed? George was far too much like a moth when it came to the fire that was Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, far too drawn to the pretty yet inevitably painfully slow death they represented. He would be like Icarus and the sun, his wings would melt and he would be sent tumbling down to cold hard Earth of reality.

In truth, Lafayette and him could never be happy. Firstly, he wasn’t even sure if the affections the young student showed him were reciprocated in the same fashion as George’s were, or if they were merely projecting their craving for a paternal figure onto him─though, the older man did lean towards the latter. Secondly, even if they did reciprocate in the same fashion, they had too much of a future ahead of them, too much of a life to live. It would never last too long. And that brought him to this third fundamental fact─if Lafayette were to ever love him in the way that he loved them, they would bore of him _awfully_ quickly. If what they had, this strange relationship where George pretended not to blush when Lafayette rested their head on his shoulder and Lafayette was either pretending not to notice or completely oblivious to the way George’s cheeks flushed when they called him ‘mon cherie’... this would never last. Half of this, for most of the students that seemed to crush on George, was for the chase. There was no fun in actually dating some old, bald Professor with nightmares leftover from the Vietnam War. But the chase, the unrequited part of the love… that was what made it hot for them. And Washington didn’t for a second doubt this was the case with Lafayette as well, if they even had romantic feelings for him.

So George cut them off─all the while convincing himself it was for the best. For Lafayette’s sanity, for his sanity… it was best he ended the relationship before it became any more unprofessional than it already was. Instead of privately tutoring them in his classroom long after he was supposed to have gone home, he referred them to Hamilton’s office instead. Instead of allowing them to buy him coffee or come by with lunch every other day while he was grading paperwork in his conference period, he went to the Staffroom for his conference and bought his own coffee before work. He stopped going to their dance recitals, their cheerleading competitions and football games. He stopped replying to their texts─though, he didn’t quite have the heart to block their number─and when he did, they were on strictly professional matters.

And apparently, this is why Gilbert felt as though they had to take matters into their own hands─or so, George believes. Whatever the reason he walks in on a naked─sans for some dangerously delicious black pumps─Lafayette, sitting on his desk with their legs spread wide and a bouquet of flowers covering their genitals, doesn’t actually matter. What _does_ matter, though, is the fact that Washington damn near goes into cardiac arrest at the sight.

If Gilbert had been looking for a bold way to get George’s attention, the plan had definitely worked. Luckily, the blinds in the lecture room were closed and Hamilton didn’t seem to be in his office yet─or else, this could’ve been a potential _disaster_. And of course, it’s on this day that his first lecture wasn’t for at least another two hours and he’d decided to come into the office early that morning in order to finish grading some papers Alexander had forgot to do the night bef─oh…

Alexander Hamilton did many things, but forgetting to grade important assignments? That wasn’t like him at all, and Washington should’ve suspected sooner. His TA was in on this… stunt. And he’d receive an extremely stern talking to later, or maybe a foot up his ass. George is still trying to decide while he recovers from the angelic vision in front of him.

 **“Have you lost your damn mind?”** George asks through gritted teeth, slamming the door to his lecture room closed and locking it. It took a few minutes for him to collect his bearings long enough to do so, protecting the two of them from any way this could possibly go awry, but when he does he is absolutely _livid_. And of course, like the perfect embodiment of every sin George wants to commit in that moment, Lafayette bats their eyelashes and says,

**“Yes, of course.”**

“Goddamnit, what the hell is wrong with you?! You could’ve gotten us both into some serious trouble! What are you doing, Gilbert?! What is wrong with you?!” Washington snaps at rapid fire, in hopes that maybe that would get an explanation. Nevermind the way his pants seem far too tight right now, or how much he wants to fuck those sarcastic words right out of the kids mind.

“You’re what’s wrong with me, George! I’m in love with you, and I… I am showing you that I want you, _Monsieur_. Oh, and proving to you that you want me _just as bad_ ,” Gilbert says the last part with a fake sweet voice, moving the bouquet of flowers so that they can rise and cross the space between their professor and themselves. It’s now, with the sounds of their heels against the linoleum floor reverberating throughout the suddenly too small lecture hall, that George realizes that he’s been backed against a corner. Both figuratively─sleep with your student and potentially lose your job, or sleep with the love of your life and become the happiest man on Earth─and literally. Despite being the bigger, taller of the two, he’s the one with his back pressed in a panic against the door. Trapped against the wall, frozen with absolute terror. Not of Lafayette, but of his own actions should he dare move a single muscle.

It’s already too much of a struggle not to jump the twenty-year-old’s bones right there, but it’s made even more difficult as he wills his eyes to remain on Lafayette’s face, rather than allowing them to stray to the forbidden tempting fruit between his students legs.

“This is inappropriate. I am your Professo─.”

“I’ve already talked to the Dean, George. He has given us his approval. I will be removed from your class, of course, but a small price to pay,” Lafayette says dismissively, and they’re just a few feet apart now. George should feel even more panic at that, and he should feel absolute fury that Lafayette did this without his permission, too… but he can’t bring himself too. At least, not right now─not when there are a million other things involving the human French heart attack. Instead, he just feels an overwhelming sense of _relief._ A sense of relaxation, like months of tension have suddenly released.

Whether it be because now knows that he can be with Lafayette, or because he knows that Lafayette wants to be with him… well, that’s a toss-up.

After closing the space between by pulling the younger into his arms, George decides to make sure Gilbert knows exactly who’s in charge of this relationship. With one swift move, Lafayette is the one against the door─knees thrown up and around George’s hips, ankles locked together to keep them in place. One of the Professor's hands curl around their slender neck─allowing enough pressure to show that he’s very much for real, but not enough to cut off the younger of the two’s airways. Washington’s eyes narrow at the young man with what he hopes conveys sternness and fury, and when his voice passes between his lips it’s husky with both anger and lust. “If you ever, and I mean if you _ever_ , pull a stunt like this again… especially without consulting me first? This is over. I will walk away from us. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Gilbert moans out, hands coming up to grip his shoulders─long nails digging through the cloth of his button-up. “I’ll be good, sir. I promise.”

God, this kid was _definitely_ gonna be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know why I didn’t think to clarify this before, but when I said ‘all in one take’, I meant that once I start a document, I can’t close it. Once I close it, the drabble is considered finished. Imma admit I cheated on this one, but only because I underestimated how much free time before school I this morning when I started it. At least I’m making an attempt to at least finish in the same day.
> 
> Also I'm an awful smut writer so sorry if that's what you were expecting.


	6. The One With The Dinner (George/Gilbert/Hercules)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner with George Washington's non-binary signif, his male signif and his deeply Southern family. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Meet the Family + dinner

The entire dinner fiasco begam with a simple trip. A flight to Westmoreland County, Virginia, more accurately, which was the birthplace and hometown of the esteemed politician George Washington. George had finally decided─after a positively agonizing wait of two years, or at least that’s how Lafayette described it─that his two significant others were at last ready to meet his family. George had already met Lafayette’s family─Laf’s eccentric cousin, Thomas and little sister, Adrienne. And had a brief run-in with Hercules’─though the man’s parents’ English was rather poor, and he’d already known his step brother James Madison. They felt it was only fair they got to meet his. However, George explained to them countless times that they had to wait until the Washingtons were more comfortable with this… arrangement their son had with his two ex-interns. Mostly because he did not want Lafayette nor Hercules to experience the pain of discrimination─especially at the hands of his own flesh and blood.

But at long last, his family had decided they were ready to meet the two people that made the prodigal son so happy. George’s older brother, Lawrence─as well as Lawrence’s wife and their three children─and his parents.

When the trio had arrived in Virginia, they’d been immediately engulfed in Mary Washington’s arms─all three of them hugged tightly and thoroughly until George’s father had interrupted with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. Mary was a lovely person─a heavy set woman with skin the colour of the night sky and shining brown eyes. She exuded warmth and joy, and both Lafayette and Hercules could tell from the way she looked at George─and of course, from the way he looked at her─that the bond she shared with her son was positively unbreakable. And even though Hercules─who was an excellent people reader─could tell she was upset that she’d most likely never have a nice young girl to call a daughter-in-law, she seemed to be happy that her child was happy.

His father, Augustine, was the polar opposite of his wife. A tall, stoic white man with hard set dark eyes that gave Lafayette and Hercules firm handshakes in place of a hug. He seemed to be far more distant than George’s mother was, and his lips curled down at the sight of the two _kids_ lingering just behind George. It was obvious that he would be the two college students’ biggest obstacle in getting in good with their longtime boyfriend’s family.

“Well,” Lafayette had muttered in French, looking to Hercules with nervous eyes─of whom simply wrapped an arm around them and squeezed their shoulder. “I can see where George got his emotional distance from.”

“C’mon in, boys, come meet the others!” Mary had called before Hercules could respond, and George had motioned for them to get inside.

The home that George Washington grew up in was nothing like their simple apartment in New York, City. Their apartment back in New York was small, and homely. Lafayette had filled every open window space with plants, and things didn’t seem to have one set place. And due to Lafayette being a painter, Hercules being a clothing designer and seamster, and George being a very busy politician─more often than not, their home was a complete disaster. Only when Martha, Adrienne or Beth came over to chastise them did the place resemble something tidy─and never did it last long.

However, the Washington Estate is a complete opposite. Every surface is pristine and sparkling─not a spec of dirt or grime in sight. Everything also seems to have its own neat and tidy place, nothing at all is out of order. There are several maids and butlers that Lafayette sees scurrying around─picking up this, adjusting that, fixing something there. Not to mention how grand and gorgeous it is. Expensive chandeliers hang from the ceilings, the floors are made out of marble and everything is so clean the boys are scared to breathe too hard for fear of breaking it.

As soon as they’re five steps into the house, Augustine calls for one of the servant girls to come take their bags. Lafayette tries to insist that they could easily take the bags upstairs if shown their room, but Augustine glares them down so hard that they merely swallow their words and hand the suitcases to the girl─who does give them a small, sweet smile at their attempt.

“Please, Mr. Lafayette,” Lafayette cringes briefly at the use of ‘Mr.’ but makes no attempt to correct the man. Afterall, they didn’t need anymore reason for Augustine not to like them. “I don’t pay them for nothing. You are our guests. I’ve arranged a room upstairs for each of you─George will sleep in his old room, and there is a room with two beds for you and Mr. Mulligan.”

Augustine says all of this with a no-nonsense tone of voice. Lafayette, Hercules and George all hear his message loud and clear─there will be no sleeping in the same bed while they’re under his roof, and if he is to catch them attempting to do so, there will be hell to pay. Laf hasn’t slept in a bed by themselves since they were eighteen─when they and Hercules first moved in together─and they’re twenty-three now. They don’t think they’ll be getting any rest the three weeks they’re supposed to be here in Virginia.

“You can call me Herc,” Hercules pipes up, in order to change the subject on sleeping arrangements. Lafayette briefly notices that their boyfriend has a slight frown painted on their lips, and they immediately know what he’s going to say. “And we usually call Lafayette Laf, Marie or Gilbert depending on their mood for the day.”

“Hercules!” They hiss between their teeth, but luckily there is no time for further comment─as they’ve come to a sliding door now. Once George reaches forward and slides the door open so that they can step outside, Lafayette feels a wave of calm wash over them. Immediately, Lafayette is relaxed at the sight of children happily running around the vast, gorgeous gardens. They’re unsure if it’s the sight of plantlife─one of their favorite hobbies, something that always managed to relax them─or children, but the sharp pain of being misgendered ebbs a little at the atmosphere.

“Ah!” Mary exclaims, which draws the attention of the children playing and the lovely couple sitting in cushy yard chairs beneath an umbrella. Lafayette immediately notices how strikingly alike Lawrence and George look─both have caramel coloured skin, with bushy eyebrows and a warm honey colored eyes. The only difference is that when Lawrence smiles, he doesn’t seem to have the small gap in his teeth that George has─one of Lafayette’s favorite qualities about their boyfriend, as they believe it makes him look so adorable─nor does he have the man’s dimples. And, Hercules will later point out to them, Lawrence is considerably shorter than his younger brother.

Lafayette is more taken with the man’s wife, however. She’s a gorgeous woman, but not at all what Lafayette had expected. They’d expected a stiff, cold woman─well, they’d expected Augustine Washington in woman form, actually. From the way George described his sister-in-law, she was very no nonsense and quite strict with her children. However, Lafayette is considerably taken off guard. She’s obviously of Middle Eastern descent, with skin the colour of treebark and long, silky black hair. And she’s got quite the award winning smile, which she flashes at George when the man steps off the back porch to greet her. Where Lafayette had expected a fancy business suit and heels, she wears a nice sundress and white flats─though, that’s probably because her belly is swollen with pregnancy.

“Oh, I love babies!” Lafayette finds themselves exclaiming before hopping off the porch after George to go and greet her. They don’t know why they’d expected her to harbour the same homophobic thoughts as her father-in-law, but if she does she is an expert at not showing it. Her eyes light up and instead of simply shaking their hand, she pulls Lafayette into a warm hug. They hug her back just as eagerly, trying not to squish her belly bump between their bodies, and greet her with a warm, “Hi, nice to meet you! I’m Lafayette.”

“I’m Anne, it’s nice to meet you, too. So, you’re one of the boys that managed to wrangle our crazy George, huh?” she asks, hand coming to rest protectively on her belly─it’s not long before she starts rubbing her stomach through the cloth of dress absentmindedly, positively glowing with pregnancy. Lafayette winces again at the misgendering, but before they can open their mouth to give an answer─that would’ve most likely skipped over the hiccup, for fear of stirring the pot with George’s family─, George himself is butting into the conversation with,

“Actually, Anne, _they_ are genderfluid. And today isn’t really a boy or girl day, so if you could kindly refer to them as they/them or use gender neutral terms,” George says, making sure his voice is at a level that his father could hear. Lafayette doesn’t miss the distasteful snort from Augustine Washington, but the man’s reaction is completely wiped from their mind when Anne’s mouth forms a small ‘o’ and she gives their bicep a comforting squeeze.

(Not to mention how they simultaneously swoon and become turned on at the way George rushes to defend their honour.)

“Oh, you have to forgive me! Yes, Lafayette, of course. Just alert me if ever I misgender you, honey, and I will make every effort to do better,” she says warmly. Lafayette must look confused or thrown off at her answer, because she gives them a small smile. “I know. Deep south, you’re lucky if you find someone that accepts homosexuality─yet alone those that identify with the transgender community. But I’m a social worker and advocate for homeless LGBTQ+ youth─kids that came out to their parents and got kicked out, mostly─, so I’m very… uh, do they say ‘woke’, these days?”

“Wow! I have to say, I admittedly didn’t expect someone to be so accepting,” Lafayette says, feeling flustered at how quick they were to assume who Anne was and what she thought of certain types of people. “Thank you. And thank you for what you’re doing for those kids. It’s important to have some validation when you’re that young and have been turned away by those you call family.”

He knew that well.

“Well, I do have my hiccups, of course. But I’m learning from these kids everyday. I just wish I could say the same for my husband. In the terms of political views, he’s very much like his father,” Anne sighs wistfully, and her eyes travel over to the man. Speaking of Lawrence, he and Hercules seem to be setting up a game of cards at the table─which causes the three talking to go over and attempt to join them.

“Prepare to get your ass dumped on in this Uno, son,” Lawrence is saying, when George, Lafayette and Anne pull up chairs to join them for the game. Once they’re all seated, Lawrence looks up and shakes Lafayette’s hand. “Nice to meet you, by the way. I’m Lawrence, li’l Georgie’s big brother. You are…?”

“Lafayette. It’s nice to meet you, too, Lawrence. I hope you didn’t challenge Hercules to a round of Uno─he is painfully good at that game,” Lafayette responds, though they accept the cards that are dealt to them by their boyfriend. George offers some murmurs of assent to that statement, much to Lawrence’s chagrin─who continues to insist that _he’s_ the best at Uno. Hercules blows a kiss at both his spouses for the support, and much Lafayette’s surprise, Lawrence doesn’t scoff or make any snide comments. Anne had said that he was similar to Augustine when it came to view, they’d expected at least some sort of expression of distaste.

Maybe George had waited for his family to get more onboard with the thought of him in a gay polyamorous relationship. Maybe Lawrence had been practicing being more accepting. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so bad.

They’re five games deep into Uno─with Hercules winning four and Anne winning one─when Mary returns outside. This time it’s to call everyone in for dinner, which the kids practically trip over themselves trying to get inside to receive.

While helping Mary and Anne fix the children's’ plates─”I grew up in a house with my little sister, and all my cousins. I know things get done faster with more hands, ma’am.”─Lafayette gets to know Lawrence and Anne’s children. The eldest is Augustine Washington II. He’s twelve, and he seems to be really into his ‘emo’ phase. His long dark hair swoops over one of his eyes, and he has to keep tossing his head to the side dramatically so that he’ll be able to see what he’s doing─much to Mary’s distaste, who keeps making comments about how Anne needs to take him to get it cut. However, he’s a really smart kid─even teaches Lafayette a little something about the history of the Washington house while they’re making his plate.

The middle child is Mildred, though she complains loudly when Anne introduces her as such─insisting that the name is old and _gross_ and is the subject for plenty of bullying from both her older brother and the kids at school. No, she practically pleads with Laf to call her Milly. She’s ten, and a very pretty girl with a close-cropped pixie cut pushed back with a bright pink headband. She really likes rap music and dancing, and she promises that she’ll teach Lafayette a dance routine she choreographed all by herself after dinner.

The current youngest is John, who is only five-years-old. He’s very quiet, and doesn’t say much to Lafayette besides ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ so they can’t really decipher much about him. Anne says that he really enjoys drawing and superheroes though, so Lafayette makes a vow to make him something really nice when they get back to New York.

One thing about George’s nephews and niece─and by relation, Laf and Hercules’ nephews and niece?─is that they have a lot of questions. More specifically, they have a lot of questions about Lafayette’s gender, their relationship with George and Hercules, and life in New York.

“Do you live right by the Statue of Liberty?” Auggie─Augustine’s preferred nickname, so that he isn’t constantly getting confused with his grandfather─asks incredulously when Hercules mentions their home in New York. The tailor chuckles at the question and shakes his head.

“No, we actually live closer to Brooklyn, in an apartment above one of my shops,” Hercules says, leaning back in his chair a little bit. Lafayette can’t help but smile at the way Auggie’s eyebrow arch with curiosity when Hercules mentions his ‘shops’─hell, even Augustine seems to have a piqued interest at the thought of Herc running his own businesses. “George didn’t tell you guys? I own and operate a chain of clothing stores that sell my own fashion line, _Culper_. If it’s okay with your mother and father, Auggie, you could come to New York during New York Fashion Week with me. I could take you to see the Statue of Liberty.”

Auggie looks to his parents expectedly at Hercules’ words, and Lawrence gives a small ‘we’ll see’─though it seems obvious that he’s not entirely willing to let his son go. Lafayette isn’t sure if it’s because Hercules is a gay man, Hercules is a gay man in a poly relationship with his brother, or if it’s simply because New York is a big city that he doesn’t want his son going to alone. Whichever it is─the disappointment is obvious on the preteens face and he slumps down in his chair with a moody pout.

“Models, huh? Do you know Maria Reynolds? She’s my favorite model ever, plus she’s a really famous dancer! Did you know she danced for Beyonce?” Milly asks, voice raising in both octave and decibels before being gently lectured by Anne to keep her indoor voice. She blushes at the reprimand, but still looks expectantly to Hercules.

“I do, actually. Maria walked when I showcased my Spring collection of dresses. Along with our wonderful Laffy,” Hercules says, lacing his fingers with Lafayette’s. Now it’s their turn to blush, though they bring the man’s hand up to kiss the back of it. “They originally were just going to come to the show, but once they saw this lovely, flowy pink gown… they had to walk. I believe George captured some pretty awesome video of that show on his phone.”

“So, wait, Laffy, I have a question,” Milly asks when it seems the rest of the adults have gone back to being mostly distracted with talk of local politics and gossip, poking at her peas to make the question seem innocent enough. Lafayette looks up from their own plate of food─glancing briefly to George and Hercules to see if they’re paying attention. In case they need to come to their immediate rescue should this turn sour. Just because Laf liked kids didn’t mean they were good with them. Luckily enough, they both are─Hercules with expectancy, George with nervousness. “On your girl days… do you actually dress as a girl? Like, do you wear makeup and dresses and heels like Mommy and Grandma?”

The kids had heard Lafayette discussing with Anne earlier about their girl days while they were in the kitchen, giving advice to her about how to deal with her genderfluid teens on the days where they feel more of one gender than the other. Though, after the initial questions of what to call Lafayette, they hadn’t seemed too interested in it. Laf guesses that their observations of what the kids were and weren’t into was completely off─which is why Hercules was better at people analysis.

“Sometimes. It depends on how lazy I am that day, as well. What I wear doesn’t really matter, though, Milly─even if I dress like a typical ‘boy’ on a girl day, I still expect to be addressed as a girl. With she and her pronouns. Do you know what pronouns are?”

“Yes! I’m the best in my English studies, I’ve never failed,” Milly says excitedly, before lowering her voice again when her father briefly glances to the end of the table where she’s sitting across from Lafayette. “and... I got another question. How come when Daddy took the Secretary lady on a date, Mommy called him a cheater… but you and Mr. Hercules and Uncle George go on dates and it’s not cheating?”

Hercules nearly spits out his mouthful of wine at the question and George goes so pale it looks as though he may fall out of his chair and faint. Apparently, everyone else heard the young girl as well, because the entire table gets deathly quiet when Milly is finished with her question. All eyes are on them, waiting for the answer they’ll give, waiting to see if they’ll fuck this up. Desperately, Lafayette looks to George─who makes it a show to look away─then to Hercules─who smiles into his wine glass but says nothing─and lastly to Anne─who just seems positively heartbroken, and in no position to answer such a difficult questions.

“I… I uh…” Lafayette clears their throat, takes a sip of their wine, and takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing? “When you and your partner willingly bring someone else into the relationship… when both you and your partner know about this partner, and are comfortable with them, then it it’s something we call polyamory. That’s what George, Hercules and I have. We all know about each other, we all are comfortable with each other, and we all love each other. But when you bring someone into your relationship without your partner's permission, when you lie to them about it, or when they’re not comfortable with it… it’s cheating. It’s important that if you want a poly relationship, everyone knows about each other and everyone is happy with the arrangement.”

Milly thinks about this answer for a moment, and while she does, the tension could be cut with a knife. But then she nods her head, seemingly accepting this answer, and goes back to shoveling food into her mouth. Crisis averted… for now.

Hesitantly, the conversation at the table picks back up─and closer to the head of the table, Lafayette notices Anne giving them both grateful and sad eyes. They wonder what the story of that is, and if she’s going to be alright after such a question was asked by her own daughter, but they decide that now─and maybe never─is not the time to ask these things. So instead, they flash her a pitying smile and raise their glass in her direction.

Later that night, when Lafayette and Hercules have squished against their lover in George’s tiny twin bed─after checking to make sure Augustine is sound asleep and won’t be coming to raise any hell about them sharing a bed─George plants a soft kiss on Lafayette’s temple.

“You handled that incident at dinner really well, baby,” George whispers into the dark of the room, his voice thick with sleep from where he’d been dozing off. Lafayette can feel Hercules reach across their man─who is laying in the middle of them─and lace their fingers together, giving their hand a comforting squeeze. An affirmation of George’s words, agreeing with the older man. “You’d make a great parent someday.”

“You think so?” Lafayette asks quietly back, eyes attempting to find George’s face in the darkness. They can see where Hercules had propped himself up with his elbow, and if they follow the darker outlines in the shadows, they can just make out the sight of George snuggled against the broad tailor. George was usually the big spoon, but Lafayette couldn’t help but muse at how adorable he looked when he allowed himself to be the little one.

“I know so,” George whispers sleepily, shuffling under the covers. “Now go to bed, my love. We’ve still got two more weeks and six more days of this. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual new favorite ship? Mullwashette is so underrated lets argue


	7. The Not-So-Secret Santa (All)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one has the trademark loudmouths, Thomas Jefferson, Hercules Mulligan, and Alexander Hamilton, in on a game that requires secretiveness… let’s just say, thing don’t go as planned. However, this is not to say that things don't work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Secret Santa
> 
> I realized there’s probably going to be some confusion about how all these poly couples coincidentally managed to know each other? It’s really simple, actually: Eliza met Lafayette, James and Samuel through a Facebook group for poly people/polyamorous couples. She introduced them to her sisters, Peggy (who isn’t poly, but lesbian) and Angelica (also isn’t poly, bisexual) and that’s pretty much how the group formed. 
> 
> Couples in this story are Eliza+John+Alexander, Lafayette+Mulligan+Washington, Charles+Samuel+King, Angelica+Maria, Thomas+James+Aaron & Peggy+Martha M.

When Angelica Schuyler walked into the coffee shop her group of friends─and little sisters─frequented, she commanded attention. Especially judging from the way a scowl painted her gorgeous features, and her eyes seemed narrowed into thin, angry slits. Now, it may just be James Madison’s imagination playing tricks on him, but the young man is almost a thousand percent sure that the entire─extremely busy, what with it being colder than a well digger’s ass outside─coffee shop goes silent when she enters.

“Angelica!” Eliza says, looking up from where she’d been texting Alexander─who, out of their merry band of friends, was the only one not in attendance─and waving her sister over. “Over here!”

Angelica maneuvers her way through the crowd of people─but not before stopping briefly at the cash register to order a coffee─and joins the group sitting in the back. They’ve somehow managed to crowd themselves into the only booth big enough to fit all twelve of them─and even so, several people have pulled chairs up to the table in order to fit comfortably. Angelica takes a chair from Lafayette─who goes to drape themselves over the laps of Hercules and George─and slams her coffee cup down onto the table.

“Where the hell is Alexander? And Samuel, King and Charles?” she asks with an edge to her voice, noticing the absence of bickering that usually went on between her brother-in-law and his frenemies. None of them were anywhere in sight. “I thought I told you that I need _all_ of you here.”

“Alex got caught up at the station,” Eliza says, pausing to take a sip of coffee. “And those three had to go and meet Charles’ parents for lunch. Sammy just told me to text him whatever you needed to tell us and he’d relay it to the group.”

Sighing at her friends total inability to follow simple instructions, Angelica looks around at the people that _were_ there. Thomas, James and Aaron had all managed to show up─which was a feat in and of itself. For a polyamorous couple, it seemed very rare that anyone managed to catch more than two of them together at a time. There was always one out of the three missing─at work, running errands, out of town.

George was there, as well, which was pretty shocking. He was so busy with being a congressman most of the time that he was hardly ever around─so much so that for the first year of his relationship with Hercules and Lafayette, Angelica had thought it was just those two. She hadn’t even known that George was a part of their romance until she attended a housewarming party for Peggy and accidentally walked in on three of them getting hot and heavy in a closet.

And Peggy. Peggy always seemed to be working at her actual job─she worked at the very cafe that Angelica told them to meet in─or on her youth programs. She─along with John Laurens, who seemed very zoned out on whatever he was doodling on the cafe napkins─was an activist that ran several non-profit charities for youth. Big Brother, Big Sister mentoring guides for LGBTQ+ kids, scholarship programs for inner-city kids and all-girls empowerment summer camp for preteen and teenage girls. The poor woman was so busy with all of these endeavors that it was rare that Angelica and Eliza were able to get together with her, which is why Angelica chose her lunch break during work to meetup with the gang.

“What’s up, Angie? Why’d you need us all here?” Thomas asks, snapping the woman from her reverie. Angelica exhales, looks around at the group one last time before making sure to turn her attention to her sisters.

“Mom and Dad called me last night. They said we won’t be having our annual family Christmas like usual,” she pauses here to gauge her sisters reactions, and is surprised to not find the level of distress that she thought she would. Both girls seem pretty bummed, but not as devastated as she’d expected. “So, I was wondering if the rest of you were busy this Christmas, and if not, if we could plan something for us here. Like a family.”

“Well, my Dad doesn’t want me bringing these two back if I go down to Virginia for Christmas, so I’m pretty freed up,” George says, adding a packet of artificial sweetner to his coffee in an attempt to look bored─though everyone sitting at the booth can tell just how hurt he is at this. “Hercules just has James here and Marie said she can’t go back to France.”

“My grandmother… when I told her I was trans, she uh… she told me that she never wanted to see my face again. However, Adrienne is coming into town. If I celebrate with you all, can she come as well?” Marie asks, leaning her head on the heel of her hand. Angelica waves her hand in dismissal, though she can tell by the way Marie’s eyes light up that she’s made her friend extremely happy.

“That’s absolutely fine, hon. What about you guys?” Angelica nods towards the end of the booth, where Thomas, Aaron and James were chatting quietly amongst themselves. They all look up in confusion─making it obvious to the woman that they hadn’t been paying attention. “Doing anything for Christmas?”

“Well,” Aaron begins. “I usually spend my Christmas’ watching Lifetime movies and eating takeout, so… no. I’m free.”

“Ever since Herc and I’s parents passed, I just spend it doing whatever Hercules does. Why?”

“I’m not going back to Virginia this year, my mother has a new boyfriend and I don’t really feel like being around all that mess.”

“Good. You’re spending the holidays with us. Alright, I’ve got Marie, Thomas, Adrienne, James, Hercules, George, and myself. Eliza, Peggy?” Angelica begins scribbling the names down on a notepad from her purse, formulating a guest list so that she’d know how much cooking she’d need to do for the holiday at hand.

“I’m down, but can I bring Martha? She’s like the Scrooge of Christmas─hates the holidays. I wanna show her true Christmas joy, y’know. It’ll be _romantic_. Might even get laid.” John audibly groans at how cliche Peggy sounds, before reminding her that she’s talking about his stepsister─so show a little decorum. The woman sticks her tongue out at him, and Angelica laughs at the two before agreeing.

“Well, since Martha is going… John you might as well go,” Eliza says, looking to her boyfriend─who wrinkles his nose. “C’mon. Alex and I are definitely going, and you know you don’t want to go back to South Carolina for Christmas. It’ll be fun! We can do Secret Santa!”

“Ooh, yes!” Marie exclaims, removing her sketchpad from her satchel. She flips to an empty page and begins scribbling everyone’s names down. “Okay… Angelica, let me see your beanie.”

Angelica hands over the hat, eyebrow raised. With careful and precise fingers, Marie rips the paper with the names into small little shreds─each shred of paper holding someone’s name. She folds them in half before dumping them all into the beanie.

“I’m adding Charles, King and Sammy in here… Eliza, you can pick for the three of them and text them who they got,” Marie says, dumping the shreds of paper into the hat and mixing them around. “John, you pick for Alex but don’t look at who he got, alright? Just give him the paper when you see him. Rules for the Secret Santa? You obviously can’t tell the person you’re buying for that it’s you, no going over thirty dollars for materials, no buying gift cards, and you have to make it.”

There’s voices of protest at the last rule, but the look Marie sends the group could rival Angelica’s. It doesn’t, of course, because Angelica is the queen of glaring─but it could.

Marie takes a slip of paper from the hat before passing it to Hercules, who repeats the motion. The beanie goes around the table until it ends with George removing the last piece of paper.

Angelica grins at the name on her piece of paper.  Eliza and Thomas both groan─probably because the people they chose are difficult to shop for. Peggy does a fist pump, John smiles wistfully, James, George and Aaron seem to be indifferent either way, and Hercules gives a smile that says ‘oh, this will be very fun’.

✘━✘

“Who did you get?” John asks his girlfriend, as he, Eliza and Alex push their cart around the crafts shop. They’d all agreed to go shopping for their materials at the same time, in the same place─to save money, and gas. However, the young brunette sitting in the cart is quickly becoming to regret agreeing upon that─seeing as this is the sixth time John has asked her this question, and Alexander had asked twelve times before. Eliza looks up at him with an expression that can only be described as a mixture between ‘offense’ and ‘exhaustion’. “What? I’m just curious!”

“Yeah, and curiosity killed the cat,” she teases, before directing him to turn down the aisle that has yarn. “I’ve already said this, John! _I can’t tell you!_ It’s called a _Secret_ Santa! What if you tell them that I’m the one making their present? Geez, I know you’re a rebel, but it can’t be this hard for you to follow the rules.”

“Wow. You’re really passionate about the do’s and don’ts of Secret Santa, aren’t you?” he asks, as she directs him to put some navy blue yarn in the cart. She nods her head just as Alexander comes bolting towards them with arms full of markers, crayons, colored pencils and pens.

“Alex! You’re supposed to be shopping for materials for your Secret Santa, not thing you like,” Eliza chastises playfully, before squeaking in indignance when he dumps all the materials on her.

“Shut up. I’m making John a poster,” he says.

“Alex!” Eliza whines, and John laughs loudly. Well, at least he could trust that his gift would be made with love.

✘━✘

Lafayette sits cross-legged in the middle of their living room, hands gently maneuvering the clay on the pottery wheel. Their eyes are concentrated on the machine, all of their attention focused on the design of the clay to make the shape they want.

“Laffy, I’m sorry darlin’, but I’m curious. Who in the hell would want a homemade clay pot?” George asks, looking down at them from his spot on the couch. He’d been focused on CNN news, but the gentle whirring of the machine had drawn his attention several minutes ago and the curiosity had been eating at him. Lafayette doesn’t offer a response, simply shrugs their shoulders and continues to gently knead the clay on the wheel. “I can’t think of anyone in our group that would find use for that.”

“Then you’re not thinking hard enough,” they respond calmly, reaching their hand into the opening in order to manipulate the shape even further. George opens his mouth to retort something equally as sassy, but Hercules enters their apartment at that very moment─arms filled to the brim with varying colors of yarn─soft pinks and blues, bright neon greens and yellows… and just as George is confused as to who in their circle of friends would want a flower pot, he is confused as to who would want all those colors clashing together.

“Y’know, _mo chroí_ , you’re an awfully hard person to drum up ideas for,” Hercules says, dumping the materials beside George on the couch to press a kiss to their forehead. Lafayette gives a squeal of annoyance at Hercules having revealed who he was Secret Santa-ing to; and by relation having revealed who Lafayette’s Secret Santa _is_.

“Herc, _mon coeur_! It was supposed to be a surprise, _non_?” they exclaim, finally tearing their eyes away from their pottery. “You’ve ruined it for me!”

“Aw man, I’m sorry, Laf!” Hercules responds, plopping down beside them on the floor. At first George believes he’s being sarcastic, but when his eyes land on his boyfriend’s face, he can tell that he’s genuinely apologetic. It’s cute, how he recognizes the importance of this to Lafayette and respects that. “This Secret Santa thing slipped my mind.”

“Hey, darlin’, the surprise isn’t _entirely_ ruined,” George pipes up, easing down onto the floor with the other to. “You don’t know what he’s going to make. I promise, I’ll help Herc hide whatever he’s making for you, so that you can be surprised on Christmas. Sound good?”

And though Lafayette is still pouting, both men can tell that this considerably makes it better.

✘━✘

“I don’t even know Maria that well!” Thomas exclaims for what seems to be the billionth time since they got who they’d be making presents for, as he scrolls through ideas for gifts on Tumblr. “Why can’t I just buy her something? It’d be so much easier!”

“Firstly, Thomas, the whole point of Secret Santa was for us not to know who you’d be making a present for,” Aaron reprimands, for what seems to be the billionth time in response to Thomas’ complaining. He’s making what seems to be personally designed coffee mugs─using blank templates and markers designed for ceramic art to design them. He’d been pretty good at hiding who his present was for, though Thomas can just barely make out a ‘G’ on one of the mugs. “Secondly, you’re supposed to make it because it’s supposed to come from the heart. These aren’t just our friends, they’re our family, too.”

“That’s lame,” the Virginian huffs, tossing his phone onto the coffee table. He dramatically drapes himself over the armrest of their couch, tossing his arm over his eyes like the drama queen he is. “Why can’t I just _pay_ someone to make something for me?”

“Can I pay someone to kick your ass? Maybe then you’d stop complaining,” Aaron murmurs under his breath, picking up another marker to doodle something on the coffee mug. Surprisingly, he’s met with silence─until his phone chimes with a notification. Curiosly, Aaron picks up his phone to read it─findin that it’s from Facebook.

 **Thomas Jefferson ─** with **Maria Reynolds, Angelica Schuyler** and **15 others.**

_Need help coming up with ideas for Maria’s Secret Santa present… anyone care to help out?_

“Goddamnit, Thomas, it’s supposed to be a _Secret_!” James yells from the other room─obviously having got the notification as well. Thomas gives a groan of annoyance at this, probably remembering that tagging the person you’re going to be Secret Santa-ing for is not the smartest idea.

“But keeping it secret is _hard_!”

“Looks like I won’t have to pay anyone to kick your ass,” Aaron chuckles, setting his phone down and glancing towards his boyfriend. Both Thomas and Aaron’s phones are blowing up with notifications─though neither of them need to check them to see it’s probably their group of friends reprimanding him on sharing who he was supposed to be the Secret Santa for. Thomas quirks an eyebrow, and his lover finishes with, “Angelica is probably going to do it for me.”

✘━✘

By the time Christmas Day rolls around, most of the people in the group participating know who their Secret Santa is─and those that don’t know for sure at least have some sort of inkling. What with loudmouths Alexander Hamilton, Hercules Mulligan and Thomas Jefferson letting everyone know not only who their gifts were for, but who their spouses gifts were for and gossips Peggy and Maria spreading around rumors as to who made presents for who… yeah, the whole idea of the Secret Santa actually being a _secret_ was moot.

And Angelica was quick to let the perpetrators know just how disappointed she was in them for not being able to hold water.

“Well,” she says, after they’ve all retired to her living room following a pretty amazing Christmas dinner. Her eyes travel over their faces─and at least most of the culprits have the decency to look ashamed. “This was _supposed_ to be a _Secret_ Santa, but thanks to a select few that can’t seem to let anyone enjoy anything… you might as well tell you who brought your gift for that it was you. I’ll start.”

Crossing over to the Christmas tree, Angelica removes a small wrapped box and hands it to Peggy’s girlfriend, Martha. “I looked up how to transfer photographs onto wood, and then I got this picture from Peggy. It didn’t come out as good as I thought it would, but I figured you would like it.”

It’s a professionally taken photo─probably taken by Charles who was a photographer. The two women were on the beach, and Martha had her arms draped over Peggy’s shoulders. Peggy’s hand came up in the photo to hold Martha’s, and her head was turned just slightly to the side to press a kiss against her cheek. Martha had that picture posted across all of her social media accounts─it was her profile picture for Instagram, Facebook, Twitter… she’d told Peggy countless times that it was her favorite photograph.

“Aw, Angie, I love it!” Martha exclaims, taking the block of wood from her adopted sister. “Thank you, so much! I’m going to put it up in my office.”

After hugging Angelica in thanks, Martha goes over to the tree to get the present that she made for Peggy. Except, she didn’t make it. It’s a small box, wrapped in gold wrapping paper, and when she presents it to Peggy she drops onto one knee.

Everyone in the room either gasps or goes deathly silent.

“I admit, I cheated,” Martha chuckles, looking up at her wife as she removes the wrapping paper and flips open the lid on the box. The ring inside is gorgeous─and it has two birthstones on it, with a small engraving that no one can really read. “I didn’t make this. I bought it, from George. I um… I’ve been dating you, Peggy, for about two years. When I first met you at John’s birthday party, something told me that I’d need to do anything to keep you in my life forever. From your big heart to your sweet soul… I knew you were the one for me. And day in, day out you prove that to me. So I’ve decided that I need to do something to prove it to you. And this is it. Will you… will you marry me?”

Peggy is speechless. She opens and closes her mouth several times, eyes watering with tears, before finally she throws her arms around her girlfriend─fiancee now─and simply nods her head.

Well, at least some secret presents could be kept.

* * *

 

**Translations**

**mo chroí** ─  my heart (Irish)

**mon coeur** ─  my heart (French)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got lazy and didn't feel like writing out the exchange of all those fucking gifts. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals.


	8. Its Quiet Uptown (John/Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas makes time for him. Thomas always makes time for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘You’re dead, and have been for years, but I still come and visit your grave everyday.’
> 
>  
> 
> This takes place in the Fall of 2016. For notkai (I'm not sure how to tag, so...?)

Fallen leaves that paint the notion of fall crunch beneath Thomas’ boots as he approaches the large cement tombstone that marks where the body of his ex-lover is held. It seems so comfortable and in place surrounded by the other headstones in the cold and mostly empty cemetery─a notion that breaks Thomas’ heart even more, destroys him from the inside out. Even despite it having been three years since his boyfriend’s death, Thomas still felt the sharp stinging pain that came with losing someone you love whenever he came to visit. However, he still always managed to make the time to visit him─he refused to allow him to be forgotten, nothing of his memory except worm and maggot food. If only to update him on a world he’d never get to see move forward and progress─progress that he had bled and fought for─ or simply change out the flowers if they’d begun wilting.

He does just this as he kneels at the grave─arranging the ribbons, banners and various cards leaning against the mans headstone that only Thomas Jefferson could achieve, before plopping down cross-legged on the cool, still wet dirt. The mud will horribly stain his brand new designer jeans but in these few caught moments, Thomas can’t find the energy to give half a damn. No amount of Versace blue jeans could ever be worth more than the one man he’d ever loved. The one man he was ever _going_ to love.

Pulling the bouquet of wilted and dead lilies─lilies had been Eliza’s favorite flower, maybe she’d brought those?─from the small vase in front of the tombstone, Thomas replaces it with a set of roses. He organizes the flowers with the same meticulousness that he’d done with the presents. Everything must be perfect for his man.

“You always loved roses,” he mutters wistfully, before placing his hand on top of tombstone. Fingertips fall from the top of the smooth concrete and dance over the cold, still wet concrete as he traces the letters of his name. “The world’s most romantic flower, you called them.”

Thomas’ hand drops and fall behind him so that he could lean his weight on his arms. “Today is our fifth anniversary, did you know? I always told myself that if we made it to year five, I would marry you. Make you mine, officially. Hell, if we had to go to Canada to get it done… I would’ve done anything to make you a Jefferson.”

Sighing, Thomas swipes at a tear that falls from his eyes. He didn’t need to cry. He didn’t need to waste anymore time on tears. That’s not what his boyfriend would’ve wanted. But he can’t help but feel as though a large part of him was missing─gone forever, taken from this world far too soon. When they’d died, they’d left Thomas a hollow man.

“Gay marriage has been legalized, y’know. You fought so hard for that─and for so many other things, of course. I can’t help but imagine what you would’ve said had you been here to see it. Thousands of people flooded the street, baby. _Thousands_. Celebrating, waving their pride flags and wearing every color of the rainbow. I like to think you would’ve been one of them. Always in the spotlight, you were. You stepped into a room and drew everyone’s attention.”

Thomas stares at the gorgeous concrete headstone with nothing but pure in his dark eyes, twirling one of the roses daintily between his fingers. He had lied to him. He had lied to his _face_. He had promised he was coming back and he had promised that they’d always be together and he had _promised_ ─

A faulty brake had taken his boyfriend away from him. A faulty fucking brake at a sharp turn in the road. He had driven straight off a goddamned cliff.

Coroner said that he snapped his neck instantly. It would’ve been completely painless.

Well… not _completely_.

Thomas can’t help but think back on how happy they’d been together. Lazy mornings spent in bed, doing nothing smiling at each other and making out and enjoying each other’s company. Busy afternoons, ripping and running all over town─hand in hand, the thought of letting go not once crossing their mind. Quiet evenings, wining and dining together. Simply happy to show each other off to the world─ _this is my boyfriend,_ their smiles screamed, _and he’ll be mine forever_. They had been so crazy in love for each other.

A dull buzzing pulls Thomas out of his reverie. He sighs and pulls out his phone from his front pocket─a text from Mr. Washington, telling him that they had a meeting soon and he couldn’t be late. Realizing his time with his lover is up, Thomas stands and bends down to press a kiss onto the headstone.

“I love you, John Laurens. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of my favorite rarepairs. notkai, I really hope you enjoyed this because I cried a lot making it. Come yell at me about this or send in prompts on my tumblr: ofmenialidealisms


	9. Merry Christmess (George/Gilbert/Hercules)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is why George can't take them anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'You haven't experienced the gift of Christmas until you lose all of your signif(s) at the mall.' 'That's a pity.' 'No, I pity the mall intercom announcing their stupidity.'
> 
> This is for PlagueBirbizzle (y’all go check out their hamilton monster reincarnation au it is THE SHIT. good shit, my guys, good shit)

George briefly pauses in the middle of a busy intersection of the mall, eyes darting between the heavily crowded walkways and his watch. He, Lafayette and Hercules had  _ originally _ agreed to meet up at the food court to get a snack after a long day of Christmas shopping. However, after his two lovers ran into their friends, those plans had seemed to change — and now despite texting each of them what felt like far too many text messages, and having all of his calls go to voicemail, he can't find them. 

When they'd arrived, Laf and Hercules had wanted to go Christmas shopping for him and each other. Of course, George didn't mind that at all — it gave him the chance to get the special presents that he'd been planning to buy for them for several months now.

And he'd got a good holiday discount price on the gorgeous wedding bands the jeweler had to offer. Happy Birthday, Jesus.

However, now he's resorted to searching around the vast mall for them. He'd been called into his office at the last minute — there had been a litany of public slanders against his name ever since the tabloids caught a photo of him, Hercules and Lafayette enjoying a date night, and the newest was  as well as several rumors that one of his significant others was a paid escort. Of course, it was nonsense, but that didn't mean he could let this rumor continue to circulate without addressing it. He needed to do a press conference, do some damage control. And he wanted — no, he  _ needed _ Laf and Herc to be there.  Needed the people to hear it from  _ their _ mouths, too. This time, the election and whether or not he won was floating on his reputation, and he'd already lost a large amount of conservative votes when they'd been found out. He couldn't afford to lose the seat to  _ Henry Laurens _ .

But they weren't answering, and he couldn't find them, and James Madison and Aaron Burr are absolutely  _ no help _ .

“Maybe I can ask them to announce them from the intercom…” George hums in thought, having given up on finding them in the plethora of crowds and now changing his search to find a mall employee that wasn’t already busy assisting someone else.

**"You haven't experienced the gift of Christmas until you lose all of your signifs at the mall,”** James says, before taking a long obnoxious slurp from his iced coffee. George briefly looks over his shoulder to glare at him, while Aaron pipes up with:

**"That's a pity.** Awful way to experience the holidays. **"**

**"No, what's a pity is using the mall intercom to announce their stupidity,”** James retorts, tossing the last of his coffee into the trash can. “They've probably gotten in trouble with mall security.”

“You two are useless,” George snaps in annoyance, though he's making his way to the first mall cop that he sees. The man is leaning boredly on his segway, typing away on his phone and ignoring the vast amounts of people that could be stealing anything from anywhere. 

“Excuse me, sir,” the politician says, when he's within hearing distance. The man looks up, eyes drooping from exhaustion and annoyance, and quirks an eyebrow. “Do you happen to know where your security office is?” 

“No, sir, I work there but have  _ no clue _ of where it is,” the man —  Jack, his name tag reads — deadpans, looking more and more fed up by the second. Behind him, James snickers and he can tell Aaron is attempting to hold back his own laughter. 

“Can you take me there, please?” Washington asks through gritted teeth, ignoring them in favor of finding his signifs. Sighing, Jack powers up his segway and begins to move through the crowds — just barely slow enough that George and his inept entourage can keep up. Its a fairly long trek, a walk that George hopes is fruitful. The conference was in an hour, and they still needed to go home and change into something media worthy. He couldn't afford to waste time going into the very bowels of the mall, only to not find the two people he was looking for.

However, he strikes lucky. When Jack guides them into the small room that apparently acts as a holding cell, he finds his lovers and their friends sitting slightly bruised and bored on one side of the room while three security guards sit annoyed on the other side of them. Oh boy.

“What happened, here?” George asks, turning to the security officer that had apparently broken up whatever happened. He can tell it was him due to the large phallic shaped bruise on the side of his face.

“They were fightin’, sir. From what I can understand, they're obviously children—” the cop glares at his significant others and their merry band of idiots — all of whom have begun silently snickering to themselves. “—and they got into the erm… adult toys in a store and were fighting with each other like they were  _ lightsabers _ .”

Lafayette chooses now to speak up, explaining with, “Alex started it! He bruised me,  _ Papa _ , look!”

“Yeah, but he hit me back!” Alex snaps, thankfully glossing over the fact that Lafayette just called him ‘Daddy’. Hercules and Thomas seem to be thoroughly amused — though they seem to have joined in, as they're not exactly unmarked themselves. George sighs for what seemed to be the billionth time that afternoon.

“Can I at least take them home?” 

“Sure. But they're banned from that particular store.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, George let's out one final exasperated sigh. At least  _ this  _ wasn’t getting out to the media.

“Of course they are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know Christmas has passed. I was enjoying the holidays with my family as well as moving cities, so I decided to return to writing after the holidays. Also, I’m sorry it’s so short. My muse for writing has been… basically nonexistent. But I wanted to finish this because I didn’t want to keep anyone waiting longer than they have to.


	10. Laundry (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George severely overestimates just how easily Lafayette can be swayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are hints of Jamilton. I didn’t tag it because I didn’t want to mislead anybody, but here's your heads up.
> 
> Prompt: [txt]: what are you wearing?  
> [txt]: nothing ;)  
> [txt]: because you haven’t done the laundry though i’ve asked you to 4 times

George rests his chin on the heel of his hand as he boredly watches Hamilton give his third presentation of that day, very nearly dozing off at the sound of his student-turned-colleague’s voice droning on about the school’s currently outdated curriculum─though, it could hardly be called droning when Hamilton seems so… _passionate_ about the topic. After he became Dean of the Columbia College, he’d thought that hiring one of his old US History students to teach the subject would be a _fantastic_ idea. The school was in desperate need of professor’s that cared about their students and what they were teaching, and if anybody fit that description, it was Alexander Hamilton. Not only did Hamilton have a degree in both American _and_ World History, and was he well-versed in both of the subjects but he also genuinely cared about the students that passed through his classroom. Cared about whether or not they understood the material, went out of his way to help every single one of them pass his classes. He genuinely did have a love for teaching. He also seemed to know the _perfect_ way to connect his students to whatever they were learning. George had thought he was making a good choice when he hired the young man.

He also thought the man would mature from his erratic, hours long lectures about anything that sparked a thought in his mind and his rivalry with his ex-boyfriend from college, Thomas Jefferson.

However, he’d severely underestimated just how vindictive and grudge holding Alexander could be, especially when it came to his passion for teaching his crafts and his hatred for whatever ideas that didn’t fit in with the vision he had for things. And most of those ideas came from none other than his loathed ex.

Luckily, Washington remembers that his fiance isn’t working today─Gilbert is an elective teacher, which meant he didn’t have to come to work on a Saturday and listen to Alexander complain for almost eight hours like the rest of the core subject professor’s─and decides to get a little… _adventurous_. Afterall, Gilbert was always encouraging him to be more spontaneous, encouraging him to come out of his shell a bit.

 **mon amour:** hey honey, what are you doing?  
**my love:** nothing, watching criminal minds reruns.

George glances up to find Alexander still rambling on, though now he’s deeply enthralled in a debate with Thomas Jefferson─who seems to believe that the textbooks and education their students were receiving was fine and they didn’t need any further updating. They’re awfully close to each other’s faces─much to the amusement of several other teachers in the meeting room─and Thomas has that special smirk that says he’s planning on embarrassing Alexander in whatever argument they’re having… which means George had ample time before they were done fighting.

Enough time to do a little teasing.

 **mon amour:** hmm… anything else? **anything particular you're wearing?**  
**my love:** that depends… what would you want me to be wearing… ;)  
**mon amour:** wearing that lingerie set i got you for your birthday is a good start  
**my love:** typing…

George can’t help but shift a little bit in his seat as his mind runs with all the possibilities of what Gilbert could respond with. His fiance was almost as, if not more unpredictable than Hamilton himself─which makes since, the two went way back. Gilbert could do anything from tease him back to send him a very blunt nude picture. Just in case its something similar to the latter, George takes a quick glance around to make sure no one was paying much attention to him. James Madison had long since given up on discretion and was lightly snoring with his head cushioned in his arms, occasionally sniffling in between snores. Aaron Burr seemed to actually be interested in the fight─though he seemed more amused at how flustered Alexander looked and less interested in the actual quarrel.

 **my love:** i hate to disappoint my love, but **im not wearing anything ;)**  
**my love:** **because you didn't do the laundry after i asked you to do it 4 times**

It takes everything in the man not to groan in absolute annoyance. Of _course_ , with Gilbert’s unpredictability always came the chance that he’d completely veer off topic. That his mind would be on five-hundred other things than the discussion at hand. Sometimes, he beared such a striking resemblance to Hamilton, it was _almost_ a turn-off. Almost, but not quite. George Washington was many things, but he wasn’t a quitter.

Trying to steer the conversation back in the direction he wants it to go, George responds with:

 **mon amour:** maybe this was my master plan all along. get you naked for me so we can take out the middleman  
**my love** : george, honey, i love you  
**my love** : but if you’re only sexting me to get out listening to alexander  
**my love:** im going to leave you

George can’t help it. Before he can control himself, he lets out a small laugh out loud. After wrapping his hand around his mouth to muffle the rest of the laughter that quietly filters from him, a genuine smile paints his lips, and he stares fondly at the message. Angelica looks up from where it appears she’d been doodling on her notepad and quirks an eyebrow─giving a knowing smirk when she sees that smile─but nobody else really takes much notice. Everyone is either boredly pretending they care about the debate in the front of the room or blatantly ignoring everyone around them in favor of doing or staring at anything else.

 **mon amour:** have i ever told you how much i love you?  
**mon amour:** laf, he won’t stop. i’m tired. we’ve come to a standstill and i just want to come home  
**my love:** mhm, love you too  
**my love:** then come home. stop being so sweet, though i love that about you. mon petit lion is admittedly… a handful. but he listens to you. tell him to shut up, and he will. either that, or give him what he wants. whichever gets you home faster.  
**mon amour:** … hm. i suppose you’re right.  
**my love:** has there ever been a time where i’m not?  
**mon amour:** touché

“Sir? What are you opinions on the subject?” Alexander asks, obviously either smug enough to think George will back him or actually tired of fighting with Thomas and ready to settle the subject. Though, anyone with half a brain would know that it was probably more of the former.

 **my love:** now hurry and get your ass home. you’ve got laundry to do.  
**my love:** oh, and me. you can’t forget to do me.

“Come to an agreement before the end of the semester, you two. Everyone, let’s go home.”


	11. Put On A Show (Adrienne/Martha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrienne was a powerhouse, a captivating light in a sea of black. And Martha wanted her. Little did she know, Adrienne might be thinking the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “While I was looking away my kid went up to you and said ‘My mom thinks you’re cute’ and I was really hoping I could tell you that myself but whoops”
> 
> The Famous People AU that no one asks for but I keep producing smh

Martha claps enthusiastically with the rest of the crowd as the line of models complete their final sashay down the runway, all of them somehow managing to look _glistening_ under the deep maroon spotlight under the stage as the evening gown twirled lightly around her ankles. This particular fashion line was so far one of her favorites that Hercules had done, and she was glad that his line had been allowed to be featured in the New York Fashion Week main event. The burlesque style dresses and well cut tuxedos had looked fantastic on the models, and he himself seemed to be glowing under the praise he was probably already receiving from critics.

Though… if the woman was going to confess, she wasn’t there for Hercules at all. She felt a tad guilty and selfish for admitting this to herself, especially since Herc had been designing for her fashion company since the thing was nothing but a little pop-up show on the corner of some rundown neighborhood. However, she simply couldn’t lie to herself as well as everyone else. Though no one had even seen the models Hercules had chosen for the _Lights_ debut─he’d wanted it to be a surprise, who he was going to have in those spectacular dresses that Martha had only glimpsed once before this─Martha had known he wouldn’t be able to resist having either of the Lafayette twins in the show. And she’d been right.

The two famous French models that had immigrated to America had gained quite the cult following. Whether it be for the boys taste for always finding himself in some sort of celebrity scandal─the latest escapade in his long list of lovers and debauchery was getting caught sleeping with Martha’s own ex-husband, George Washington─or the fact that the nobody really knew anything about his sister. Adrienne de Lafayette was a mystery that the American public was desperate to solve… Martha included. She never was seen outside of a runway, and she had a squeaky clean record. No vindictive exes, no shady past, certainly none of the scandal that shrouded her brother’s reputation like the plague.

And ever since Martha had seen her in someone else’s line the previous year at Fashion Week, the older woman had had the slightest bit of a crush on her.

This was Martha’s niche, you see? She fell in love with mysteries, with things she couldn’t have, with things always just out of her grasp. George had been that. An… enigma. A giant question mark, just begging to be turned into a statement. She’d spent ten years as the Democratic congressman’s wife, attempting to do just that. Solve who he was, knock down those walls he so loved to build. The only thing she managed to find out was that he’d been cheating on her for five of those ten years with his hot young secretary. His hot young _boy_ secretary.

(The kid got married too quickly after that scandal and married some poor soul that probably didn’t even have the slightest clue of his inclination to carry on affairs.)

She knew it got her hurt. She knew that mysteries were mysteries for a reason and not everything could be deciphered… but she couldn’t help herself. Adrienne was… beautiful. Her daughter had called it a minor obsession─the way she practically hoarded all the magazines the woman was featured in. Lovely hooded green eyes that seemed to say nothing and everything at all. A slender frame with a walk that always made her seem like she wasn’t quiet floating… more like floating. A bright smile─though, it was very rarely seen in her shows─that dazzled anyone with half a brain and a pair of eyes.

And it wasn’t just the looks. It was… the allure. She had a demeanor that called for… no, _demanded_ attention. It was… stunning.

“Mom?” Patsy says, and Martha realizes she’d been staring at the space where Adrienne’s retreating back had once been. She blinks herself out of her mind and turns to look around the room. Those that were invited were slowly making their way to the rooftop venue for the afterparty, filtering out of the room. In the corner of her eye, she can see Hercules giving an interview for some magazine so she decided to catch up with him later.

“Yes, let’s go. I want to get there before him.”

* * *

 

Adrienne can’t help but feel considerably more relaxed when she find Gilbert’s face in the crowd of the afterparty, flirting with that politician he’s been fucking and looking positively electric. She is beginning to think that this George guy isn’t just another one of his fucks but having quite the effect on him, seeing as he hasn’t looked so positively electric in a _long_ time. She wishes she could say the same for herself, but she probably looks half a mess right now. Her heels are killing her, her eyes and cheeks hurt from smiling into the flashes of cameras, and she’s so tired of playing nice with the A-list sleazebags that felt simply because she didn’t have a ‘boyfriend’, they were owed her attention. She just wants to go home with Gil, put in a copy of White Chicks and drink some nice warm tea.

Though, judging by the two men’s flitting glances and the way they keep inching near the exit, she’ll be partaking in the Wayans comedy classic alone.

Before she can finish parting her way through the crowd to get a confirmation on that, however, a hand relaxes onto her forearm and gives a gentle tug. She’s about to turn and snap─once and for all, she was done with this _shit_ ─but instead of some creep, she finds the slightly cherubic face of a young girl. The child can’t be much older than fifteen or sixteen, which meant she certainly had no business at the late hours afterparty. Didn’t she have school in the morning, or something?

“ _Hi, Miss de Lafayette, yes?_ ” the young girl asks, in surprisingly eloquent French. Adrienne has to school her expression in order not to seem so excited. The only time she’d ever really spoken much of her native tongue since leaving her home in France was when she was alone with her brother─well, it was the only time she could at least get a challenge out of a conversation. America, surprisingly, did not have a ton of French-speaking models or fashion designers─which meant she’d been deprived of good conversation for awhile.

Mood admittedly a little better, but not by much, Adrienne responds with, “ _Yeah, that’s me. What do you need, little one?_ ”

“ _I… I have something to ask you. But I’m afraid that if anyone hears it in English, it could get my mother in a lot of trouble._ ” The girl is fidgeting with her hands─wringing them out as she glances around. Maybe she’s trying to make sure said mother is out of earshot, or maybe she’s trying to keep something far more serious under wraps.

Whatever it is, Adrienne is immediately suspicious of it. A faint call to mind of how much of a mess Gilbert had been when he’d gotten mixed up with drugs for all those years sends a chill down her spine, and she takes a cautious away from the younger lady. This had been exactly how Gil had gotten into this mess. " _ _Uh... _if you’re trying to get me into some sort of drug thing, I’m not interested."___

“ _What? No! I just wanted to tell you that my mom is pansexual, and she’s very… very interested in you. Martha? You know, the owner of the company that the guy that did this line helps design for?_ ”

“ _Mart─oh! Martha Washington?”_ Adri knows her. The woman was a powerhouse in the industry. She had a fairly expensive line that sold _millions_ everyday, and was so influential in the fashion community, she helped the young designers that worked under her get their upstart with their own companies. She _created_ competition for herself, if only to have a challenge. Martha Washington’s reputation preceded her─which was saying a lot, because she started as some little nobody congressman’s wife and worked her way up by playing the field. Adrienne was pretty sure she was in love with that woman─or at least, in love with her cunning.

She’d nearly slapped the shit out of her brother when she found out she was fucking _Martha Washington’s_ cheating-ass ex-husband.

“ _That would be her. Her reputation is already consistently tarnished by my step-father’s scandals, so she can’t afford to come out of the closet. But she’s got the biggest crush on you. I just want her to be happy, you see? So. I figured if she wouldn’t tell you, then I will._ ”

Once again, Adrienne finds herself having to rush to school her features into something professional, make sure this little sweet girl didn’t see the internal fangirl she was having. Martha had a crush on her? Her?! She was just some model, she didn’t even have half the attention her brother got. How could Martha even _know_ about her?

“ _H _a, you’re a sweet kid,”__ she says, instead of asking all those questions. If this was true─which, she couldn’t see the child’s motives for lying─then she wanted to make a good impression. She didn’t want to be a giggling, blushing mess should Martha find her daughter and join their conversation.

And just Adri’s luck, that’s the exact thing that happens.

“Patsy? What are you doing bothering Miss de Lafayette?” a voice asks, and both girls eyes flit up. For a moment, Adrienne thinks the woman looks out of place. No, that’s not it… she looks significantly less important than she actually is. Weaker, even. She looks like she’d been dragged to this by her rich, connected husband─not that she was the one that fronted most of the money to make it happen. The dress she wears is less evening party and more housewife─even having soft pastel blues and pinks─, and her hair isn’t in any favor elegant updo but hanging loosely around her shoulders. Her eyes are warm and brown, and there’s a look of nervous concern on her face.

“She’s not bothering me. Simply telling me about… your eagerness to meet me. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Adrienne tries, using all her efforts to be as smooth as humanly possible. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t. Fuck. This. Up.

“Well, I was hoping to tell you that myself,” Martha says, aiming a careful glare to her daughter─who had been trying to inconspicuously sneak away from the conversation the moment she heard her mother’s voice. She mouths an apology before running off to join her step-father and Gilbert, probably much preferring to be around the two laughing men than her mother’s impending wrath. “But… yes. I actually, erm… I─”

“It’s okay, Martha. I know,” Adrienne comforts, placing a light hand on the other woman’s bicep─checking her expression to make sure the touch is welcome. When all she receives in response is a light blush and wide eyes, she gives a cheeky grin. Was this woman was actually… _cute_? “I have some ideas for some of your merchandise. Here’s my number. Maybe we can talk some time?”

Once the card is in her hand, Martha manages to find her words─digging her own card out of her clutch to pass it to Adrienne. “I’d like that. This is _my_ number. You can contact me here.”

Figuring now is a good time to leave before things get awkward, Adrienne lowers her hand and takes a careful step back─jerking her thumb over her shoulder as she begins moving towards the man. “Well… I’ve got to go get my brother. He’s trouble if left alone too long, y’know? I’ll call you, though!”

Later that night, when Gilbert is snuggled up to George in bed and Patsy is thoroughly grounded in her room, both women pick up their phones and laugh to themselves when they find their notifications blowing up with headlines.

**ADRIENNE DE LAFAYETTE SEEN FLIRTING WITH CEO OF FASHION COMPANY: HAS THE MYSTERIOUS WOMAN FINALLY BEEN SOLVED?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Lights’ is the name of the fashion line Hercules had on the runway. It was called this because all of the outfits contained either small LED lights or glitter.
> 
> Also, listen to the song Mine by Bazzi (the slowed version). That shit is a mfn bop and I’ve had it on repeat ever since I started this


	12. Requiem For An Ex (Eliza/Maria)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Alexander is his dirty, cheating self and Maria must be nuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘Your ex just broke up with you and you’re really sad and I feel the need to protect you so lets go egg his fucking house’

When Maria comes home from work one early Sunday morning and is greeted with the quieted sniveling of her roommate instead of the girl’s gentle snores, her hackles are immediately raised. A fleeting thought that her ex-boyfriend had come back and done something to hurt her best friend has her hand reaching for the bat kept hidden in the closet by the door. Once she's quietly shed her heels and began tiptoeing towards the couch—where she can hear the sniffles are coming from—she realizes there's no threat to her or Eliza's safety.

Which, in hindsight, is much worse.

“‘Liza? You okay, honey?” Maria asks tentatively, suddenly at a loss with what to do with herself. If Eliza was crying, then something pretty awful must’ve happened. Elizabeth Schuyler was the brightest light Maria had ever seen in her entire life, and unlike many others in the world, she hardly let things get her down for too long.

However, the distressed figure curled up in a blanket on the couch is certainly not the Eliza that Maria had been living with for years. Maria is instantly thrown at just how… _awful_ her best friend looks. Once she's perched on the armrest of the couch by Eliza’s feet and she’s able to get a good look at her, the older of the two winces just slightly. Since the apartment is completely dark, Eliza's face is illuminated only by the screen of her phone. Her cheeks are red, splotchy and streaked with streams of tears and her hair is pulled into a messy bun. She's wearing one of Alex’s shirts and some of Maria’s sweatpants, and her eyes…

The young bartender had never seen Eliza look so completely… _broken_.

“I'm afraid not, Maria… it's Alexander, he—”

“Oh My God, is he hurt?” For some reason, Maria isn’t able to process the fact that Alexander is the cause of Eliza’s hurt. It doesn’t even cross her mind, not even for a single moment. Alex and Eliza had been dating since they were sophomores in High School—which roughly totaled to about seven years—and had been completely attached at the hip ever since. It’s rare they were seen apart, and when they were, they were constantly texting each other. The two couldn’t stand to be away from each other, they were completely, absolutely madly in love with each other.

Alex would never do anything to intentionally hurt, Eliza. He’d rather _die_.

However, this notion of Alexander 100% giving himself over to Eliza is completely smashed into smithereens with Eliza’s next words. Wide, brown eyes lift to Maria’s face—finally tearing away from whatever she’d been looking at on her screen—and lips say the words that Maria _never_ thought she’d hear.

“N-no… he _cheated_ on me. With his _roommate_ . He called and told me two hours ago—said he couldn't bear to live in guilt. He was drunk, Maria. He had to be drunk to tell me the truth, and that’s the worst part. Do you know this morning he texted me he loved me… can you believe the _fucking_ nerve?”

Eliza's phone flies past Maria’s face with a fit of rage and slaps against the wall before clunking to the carpeted floor with a dull ‘thump’. Maria is shell-shocked. She doesn’t even know what to say, doesn’t even know where to begin. _Seven years_. They’d been together for seven, long years. Everyone had thought that they would last _forever._ How could Alex do this to her? And then confessing while drunk, over the phone? He didn’t even have the balls to look her in the eyes?

“Oh… Oh, Eliza, honey, I'm so sorry,” Maria whispers, still unable to find the appropriate words. What does one say? ‘I’m sorry’ didn't even _begin_ to cover it. Maria felt positively awful, and she wasn’t the one that had been cheating on the middle Schuyler.

“What are _you_ sorry for? You're not the one that led me on for seven fucking years. Y’know… he told me that I would be a housewife once he graduated law school. Told me that we were gonna live happily ever after. _What_ _fucking bullshit_.”

“I… L-lets go egg his house.” Unfortunately for Maria, she’s always lacked a filter. Lacked the ability to choose and pick her words, sift through her thoughts to create the most eloquent of sentences. She said what she meant, how she meant it, when she meant it. So the words come sputtering out, tripping clumsily over her tongue. This earns a small bark of laughter from Eliza, before she looks up to find the other woman is _absolutely serious._

“Wait… what? You really wanna go _egg his house?_ ” Eliza asks incredulously, wiping hastily at her tears.

“Yeah. Fuck him and that asshole of a roommate. Fuck all his roommates, actually, ‘cause they probably knew this shit was going on. Let's go egg their fucking house,” Maria insists, and now that the idea is out there—it makes the most sense. Jumping to her feet, she swipes up her keys and moves across the living room to go put her heels back on.

“Maria, I don't know… doesn't that scream ‘bitter ex’ a bit too much?” the younger asks, still sitting dumbly on the couch.

“Either that, or we're busting the windows out of his car.”

“... Afterwards can we go to the 24/7 store and get ice cream?”

“We can go anywhere you want, honey.”

And so that’s how the two roommates found themselves in front of the two story house where Alexander Hamilton lived with his three roommates, at approximately four in the morning, shivering from the cold and laughing their tipsy asses off. Eliza had, as a last minute thought, snagged a bottle of wine when they were buying eggs from the grocery store, and so they each take turns sipping at the bottle and throwing the eggs.

“Fuck you, Alex!” Maria shouts at the top of her lungs, when one of the eggs splatters against the window she _knew_ was in his bedroom. It slides down the cold glass, creating a sticky trail of yolk that will most definitely be frozen by morning. Eliza barks out giddy, drunken laughter, and does her best to throw another of the eggs at his windshield—better yet, it hits the roommates car and splatters over the back of its windshield.

“Yeah, fuck you! And fuck your stupid, cheater boyfriend, too!” Eliza shouts, though most of her words come out slurred and slightly incoherent. Several more of their yolky ammunition follow in rapid succession, painting John Lauren’s windshield a sickly yellow color. Eliza falls against Maria laughing and hiccuping loudly, to which Maria wraps an arm around her shoulder—in order to help her keep upright.

“Hey, Maria, I’ve got a good one,” Eliza whispers, the scent of alcohol on her breath travelling up into her roommates nose. After reaching for one of the eggs, Eliza launches it haphazardly, shouting, “Guess what, you cheating fuck? I faked all my orgasms!”

Smiling broadly at the silly antics—and maybe more than amused at the fact that Alex couldn’t make the poor girl come—, Maria looks to her best friend. She doesn’t know this quite yet—and she won’t for a year or two—but its with an aching, fond look in her eyes. Unfortunately, for both the bartender and her best friend, she hasn’t yet realized just how far gone she is for her. But it'll be any moment now, at the rate they were going.

“It’s getting late… and it’s cold, ‘Liza,” Maria mutters, though the sentence becomes very half-hearted, given Eliza has thrown her arm off her shoulder and begun stumbling uneasily forward. Armed with the last carton of eggs, and a wrath like no hell could ever imagine, Eliza proceeds to repeatedly pelt Alex’s window with eggs—and with a scary precision, given how drunk she is. A second ago, wasn’t she limply throwing them that direction and hitting the windshield of John’s car?

Punctuating each word with the toss of an egg, Eliza shouts, “I. Hate. You. For. Making. Me… for making me… For. Making. Me. _Love_. You!”

When the final egg has shattered against his window, the middle Schuyler girl sinks tearfully to the frozen ground—sobbing ugly, hiccupy tears violently in the middle of their lawn that have Maria rushing to her side. Arms tightly encircle around Eliza’s shoulders, and this time she wouldn’t let go for the sake of the world.

And in that moment,—which, Maria could swear it’s the worst possible moment—an almost earthquaking realization dawns on the older of the two girls.

Even with her messy bun, her too-big sweater, her baggy sweatpants, her heart-wrenching crying… Eliza is still _beautiful_. The cold of the November chill paired with the fact she’s downed half the bottle of wine by herself makes her cheeks flush, and her eyes—though still red-rimmed and puffy from crying—are glistening with hope when she finally looks up.

Elizabeth Schuyler is madly, truly beautiful and Maria Reynolds is helplessly in love with her.


	13. 3 Times James Madison Hated Himself [And The One Time Thomas Wouldn’t Let Him] (James/Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James’ jokes have been getting darker and darker lately, and Thomas is growing steadily concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘Look I know your self-deprecating humor isn’t jokes do you need a hug? A therapist? You’re a great person don’t feel that way’
> 
> TW: Suicidal thoughts, self-deprecating humor, suicide

**1.**

Early autumn evenings were Thomas’ favorite time of day─especially when he was spending them with his best friend. James had been putting off this coffee date for weeks in favor of working from home, but Thomas had finally triumphantly convinced him to come out for some fresh air and sunlight. It was too often that James let his sickness and depression eat away at him, holed himself up and away from the world so that no one would see him at its worst state. Things got better after he separated himself from his homophobic father and had gotten that prestigious job he’d been gunning for. But lately… lately James had been backsliding something awful. And Thomas simply wouldn’t stand for it.

“Ain’t it a lovely evening?” Thomas asks, after retrieving their coffees from the barista and setting them on their table. He’d gotten a lovely booth near the window that allowed the sun to filter in. He can’t help but notice at the way it made James’ dark skin glow. “Perfect for a walk in the park, don’t y’think?”

James sniffles quietly─recovering from a cold, the colder seasons tended to do that to him─and attempts to pull his coffee cup closer to him. Instead, he accidentally backhands Thomas’ cup─sending the coffee tilting and splashes against the table, Thomas’ new jeans, and the floor. After the ensuing yelps of pain from the taller man, and James hurriedly running to get napkins to get the hot coffee off his best friend’s skin, the two manage to settle down. The throbbing pain slowly but surely subsides in Jefferson’s leg, and James eventually returns with a new drink for him─looking both disappointed and angry, though neither seem to be pointed at the man seated across from it.

“Heh. I’m such a fucking clutz, I can’t even grip right. I’d be a great sidekick,” James chuckles after about twenty total minutes of silence, barely noticing that Thomas isn’t partaking in the ‘joke’ with him. Jefferson looks up from where he’d cleaning the last of the spilled coffee from the seat, brow furrowing. “I’d just run around tripping over all the bad guys, like some bumbling idiot.”

“I s’pose. It’s not that big of a deal, Jemmy, y’know it’s just a dollar cup of coffee, right?” Thomas asks hesitantly, taking a few napkins and dabbing at the mess. “And I’m not even really hurt. See? Just a little burn, probably, nothin’ that some Neosporin won’t fix.”

“Yeah, sure. It was just a joke, Thomas.”

**2.**

The second time is on the roof of Jefferson’s house, at nearly midnight. James doesn’t know what came over the taller of the two of them to climb a fucking house, but that’s exactly what Thomas comes knocking on his door at eleven in the evening to do─luckily, James hadn’t been sleeping much so he’s awake and able to accompany his far more outgoing friend on another ‘wacky adventure’. After picking up James from his apartment and driving the 50 miles to the outskirts of town to his perfect three-story home, Thomas grabs some blankets and snacks and uses a ladder to make the trek up.

Thomas’ house is far taller than James remembers. Or it must be, because his eyes keep cautiously darting to the edge─where, should anything ‘accidentally’ happen, there’d be nothing but a cement driveway to break a fall.

James voices this exact thing─in the middle of Thomas attempting to point out the Orion constellation─and it sends his best friend to a grinding halt. With all his blabbering about stars and belts, Thomas hadn’t noticed that James had been slowly shimmying towards the edge of the roof so that his feet dangled just slightly over it─it would just take a nudge forward, a slight lean, to send the boy tumbling down to the hard concrete. His hands grip the edge of the roof tightly─so tightly that his knuckles visibly pale a bit─and there’s something dark in his eyes. Something that Thomas had only seen once before, when a girl he’d liked had smiled at him in the hallway.

 _Longing_.

“Dare me to jump? I bet you five bucks I could let on my feet,” James whispers, a faint bit of joking tone coating the edges of his voice─but still not _quite_ there.

“No… because, you wouldn’t, James. You’d _die_ ,” Thomas splutters. This seems to snap his friend out of whatever trance he was in, because James looks up and lightly socks him in the shoulder─though the look of longing doesn’t disappear.

“I _know_ that, stupid. It was a joke. Don’t get all butthurt.”

**3.**

Thomas almost isn’t sure about the third time. They’re hanging with friends─something that had taken _three months_ for James to allow Thomas to plan─and for the first time in a long time, it looks like James might be doing a bit better. He’d showered that morning, and had slept a full eight hours last night─both of which were better than the pattern he’d been keeping up for the last six months. Some of the bags under his eyes were gone, and his eyes were twinkling.

James just needed to get out more… didn’t he? That _must’ve_ been it. Depression was only a state of mind after all, and once someone started putting their mind to it, it could be cured. All he had needed to do was cheer up a bit.

Or at least, this is what Thomas tries to convince himself all night while controllers are passed around─each person trying to beat James’ current winning streak in Injustice 2, and failing miserably. James was wiping the floor with every one of his friends, and it seemed like he was having a fairly good time.

At least, until Peggy got hold of the controller. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that Peggy gamed professionally─she had a very popular Twitch stream, and an even more popular YouTube account. There wasn’t a game someone put in front of her that she couldn’t beat on the first try. Hell, she had even started a gaming channel with other gamers that discussed every aspect of games and did co-op gameplays. She was very good at gaming─as she had to be, it paid her bills.

When Peggy begins winning against James, much to the utter amusement of Alexander─who James had Flawless Victory’d in twenty seconds─the young man becomes visibly frustrated. Though not in a sore-loser type of way, just in a way that someone who couldn’t beat a particularly hard level would become.

And when Peggy finishes him with the Harley Quinn super move, James laughs and tosses the controller to Aaron─who was next up on the rotation to play.

“Ah, I’m garbage. Just gotta throw the whole James away, start fresh,” he jokes lightly, stepping over Angelica’s legs to get over to the kitchen. The comment earns a few chuckles from John─but for the most part, everyone in the party just looks… _concerned_. The relaxation that Thomas had been slowly allowing to ease into his bones dissipates, and he worriedly searches James’ face for any sign of truth to the sentence. Was James going to do something ‘throw himself away’? Or was it a silly passing comment?

“You alright, Jemmy?” Thomas asks, stopping the young man on his way to get another beer. There’s a brief flash of sadness in his eyes, but James shrugs Thomas off in place of saying whatever he was going to. Instead, he calls back,

“Don’t be a worry wart! Loosen up a little!”

**(1)**

Usually, Thomas would work through lunch on Friday’s─cramming in as much work as possible in order to have the best possible weekend. He didn’t want Martha calling him in the middle of one of his binge watching sessions to review a new advertisement design or put together a presentation for one of their products─he’d rather just get it all done and be able to kick back for the entire weekend.

However, he hasn’t seen James in going on two weeks and he has to admit─he’s becoming a bit worried. It’s not entirely his fault that he had abandoned his best friend, there had just been too much going on. There were those interviews for the companies Fall Fashion line they showcased, and then the catalogues needed to be finished and sent out and he _had_ to make sure the catalogues were being shipped to stores on a good publishing date. _Then_ there was that company stalker scandal that he had to scramble to distract the media from… he’d just been far too busy to check in on his friend like he usually would. Working PR for a big time fashion line was hard work, and besides─Jemmy would be fine, wouldn’t he? It wasn’t like his depression handicapped him─if he needed someone, he knew how to call Dolley or Martha.

Even despite this mantra repeating in his head, Thomas can’t stop the gnawing guilt that eats at him during his work day. So much so, he doesn’t even have the energy to insult Alex’s terrible fashion sense. All he can think about is if James is okay, and what would happen if he isn’t?

As the clock strikes eleven, he simply can’t take it anymore. Calling to Martha that he’d be taking an early lunch, Thomas snatches up his jacket and hurries as fast as he can out of the building. The second he gets behind the wheel, he goes as fast as he can without getting caught─which, with the noon traffic, isn’t very fast at all. Every second seems to tick by, going faster than Thomas can keep up with.

It takes a total of twenty-one minutes and thirty-four seconds for Thomas to properly get inside of James’ apartment, and just a second more for him to locate his best friend curled in a ball in the center of his bed─certainly looking worse for wear. Its obvious─if judging by the trash can by the side of the bed is anything to go by─that he’s been vomiting, and for a second Thomas thinks he’s simply got another stomach bug. And oh how he wishes it were just a stomach bug. But then the glaring orange bottle of painkillers on the nightstand catches his eyes, along with the bottle of vodka sitting half-empty beside it.

Approaching the bottle, Thomas’ prayers to God go unanswered when he finds the bottle of medicine is indeed empty. James had tried to kill himself, and now his body was rejecting the medication.

“James…”

“Hush, Thomas, save it. I already _know_. I’m such a fuck-up, I can’t even kill myself properly.” The joke comes out dry, it definitely falls short of landing. Sighing in both exhaustion and deeply seated sadness, Thomas grabs the young man by the shoulders and lifts him up so that he can rest against the headboard. After double-checking to make sure there are no more pills within arms reach of James, he heads into the adjoining bathroom to get a warm towel.

The entire time, Thomas finds he’s unable to fight the urges that bubble up inside of him. The urge to yell at him, the urge to slap him, the urge to leave. He’s angry. And don’t get him wrong, Thomas _knows_ that’s not the appropriate response. He should be comforting James, holding him, assuring him that everything will be alright. But… Thomas is at the end of his rope, and if he had lost James, he doesn’t know what to do.

“Mads… I… are you purposefully stupid or just blind? _Killing_ yourself? What the hell would that solve, huh? You… that’s… it’s selfish! I could’ve lost you, forever. And if I had… if you hadn’t of failed,  I─” Thomas cuts himself off as he sits on the edge of the bed beside him, wiping the vomit, tears, and general grime from his best friend’s face. James’ expression softens with each word, until he’s eventually leaning into Thomas’ touch with his eyes closed.

“You don’t think I know all that, Tommy?! I get it, okay, I’m a selfish piece of shit and I don’t deserve how good you are to me. I get it!” James’ voice is helpless as he says that, filled with a pain that Thomas had never heard before. Mads was exhausted, and all his actions did was prove just how much so.

“That’s not what I meant, James, I’m just… I’m just angry. Okay. I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to help you and that frustrates me. I know you’re going through a lot but I don’t… I don’t wanna lose you. So do you want to see a therapist? Do you need to be on some more medication? What do I do?”

“Just… hold me, for now? Don’t leave me.”

And so, Thomas obliges him. He wraps his arms around James’ slight figure, pulls him close against his chest and holds him. He doesn't move when his lunch is over, or when the sun begins to set. He doesn’t move when James begins snoring, he when he needs to pee. He stays. It’s the least he could do.

They’d figure this out. They’d get through it.


	14. Ever Yours, Thomas (Martha/Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll never forgive you."
> 
> "I can live with that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'I'll never forgive you.'  
> 'I can live with that.'

“ **I'll never forgive you**.” The words pass the young beauties lips but have no meaning, no real anger. The malice is half-assed, forced. Her voice itself is not even quite there, really. Martha’s staring at him, her Thomas, big brown eyes watering and face contorted into pain. The rapid bleeding in her stomach is being desperately staunched by the couple’s hands, but there isn’t much time. There certainly isn’t anything left to be done. Martha Jefferson was going to die.

In these moments, she won’t allow herself to tell him how safe she feels in his arms, or how a part of her is glad that he’s chosen to stay with her─it’d keep him here, and Martha is smart enough to know he needs to go. She knows he needs to leave her. They had little Martha to look after now, it wasn’t just the two of them anymore. Marty will need her father if she’s going to lose her mother to the Cause, and so he needs to go.

Thomas chuckles drily at her words, kisses her forehead. Tears slip from his eyes and down his own cheeks, little droplets landing on her face and hair. He doesn’t want to stay here either─it’s unsafe for his daughter, and he always told himself he would never put her in danger─, but he won’t leave Martha here alone. He let his father die alone in that barn, and his sister die alone in the warehouse. He would let Martha be the next victim of these ‘Cause’ assholes by herself. Goddamnit, he won’t leave her. He _loves_ her.

“ **I can live with that** ,” he whispers, tucking strands of wild, curly hair away from her face. She’s truly a beautiful sight to behold. Even with the blood and grime on her face, even with the aging war does in the lines around her eyes, even with the pain in her eyes and the forced fury on her tongue… she’s beautiful. He loves her so much, his heart aches physically at the thought of losing her. His wife. His Martha.

“Fuck you. _Go_ ,” she snaps, bloodied hands reaching up to push against his chest─painting two childlike, red hand stains on the yellowed cloth. On his back, in her little carrier, Marty begins to whine─obviously sensing her parents distress. “Take her, Thomas, and go! I can hold them off!”

“Not alone. I won’t leave you alone, baby,” he whispers, and there’s a fierce determination in his voice. Martha looks around frantically, as if searching for some help. But there is no one else─they’re all dead or gone North. No, it’s just the three of them in this farmhouse kitchen, and the loud sounds of the Cause trying to break into the house. They’ll be there, in the kitchen, at any minute. He still has time. He can go, escape through the back door. He can save himself. He can save their baby. “Don’t make me leave you here. _Please_.”

“Go,” she insists, hands reaching up to cup his face. She pulls herself up with what little strength she has and places her lips on his. The kiss is sweet, and salty with their tears, and brimmed full of contrition. Regretfulness. They could’ve chosen another life for little Marty─they could’ve sided with the Cause, lived a happy life in a farmhouse on a hill somewhere. But they’d joined the Resistance, both knowing they were dooming not only themselves… but their future child. However, the couple had wished… had hoped that the war would be over by the time Martha Jefferson, Jr. came into the world. They had hoped they would’ve already made the world a better place for her, for their sweet little Marty.

Thomas sees now that their hopes had been fatally naive.

When she pulls away, those bloody hands reach for the gun that had been discarded at her side when Thomas had drug her into the kitchen. Determination fuels Martha Jefferson as her hand wraps around the handle and her finger slips onto the trigger. “Find Lafayette, and get to Canada. Take our baby to Canada, to safety. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. Go.”

“Martha─”

“I won’t say it again, Thomas,” she whispers, and the front door slams open. Shouting fills the house, orders being thrown around to find the Resisters. They’re coming. “Go. _Please_. Hurry.”

He nods. Shakily rising to his feet and taking the rifle with him, Thomas gently rests Martha against the kitchen cabinets─facing the kitchen doorway, where the Cause would be there in just a second more. He stares down at her beautiful face, one final time. His body is laden with hesitation, with doubt─his eyes moving between her and the door. But she smiles up at him, blows him a gentle kiss.

_“I am ever yours, Thomas.”_

The first of the Cause push through the doors, and Martha’s grip on the gun tightens.

Thomas turns and leaves her, a crying Marty on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas/Martha is an underrated ship ok i stand by that


	15. Cathedral (George/Gilbert) [[NSFW]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Lafayette and Washington find their own form of heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P O O R L Y W R I T T E N S M U T A H E A D 
> 
> Prompt: ‘You just want to defile every holy place in France, you perverted old man.’ ‘Well, I don't see you telling me ‘no’, you sex-crazed nympho.’
> 
> tw: daddy kink, defiling of holy places, a little hair pulling

On paper, the reason why Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette takes his forty-four-year-old boyfriend─and sugar daddy, but his relationship with George had never been solely a source of sex and money for the younger man so he didn’t call him that for the most part─was so that the congressman could meet his family. Though most of his biological family was dead, he still had his cousins and his adoptive family. There had been a long-standing tradition every year where the Noailles-Jefferson─and now, Lafayette─family had a summer reunion at the long-standing family summer mansion. It was a huge property, with extra lodging, vast gardens and even a glistening lake─which made it a very beautiful vacation spot. Everyone in the family went to Clermont-Ferrand yearly and enjoyed four weeks of the summer catching up, going on outings, and throwing parties. Due to all of this, Lafayette had thought it a brilliant chance to introduce his boyfriend to his family, as well as show George some of the nicer sights of France─and maybe take advantage of the chance to show off just how much of a catch George Washington truly was to his cousins and sister.

However, in actuality, Lafayette had just wanted to add one more country to the list of countries he got fucked by George in─a list that was getting, surprisingly, long. Who knew that a congressman and a model could do so much companion traveling?

This is how he finds himself pinned against the wall of a stall in a bathroom in the _Notre Dame de Paris_ ─one hand twisted and held behind his back and the other hand gripping the top of the stall. His eyes are wrenched shut against the pleasure at first, hips bucking into the hand of George as the older man stretches him over his fingers. Then a thought comes to mind, and he opens his eyes to glimpse his boyfriend over his shoulder.

The image of George, bottom lip between his teeth, fingers thrusting inside of Lafayette’s hole… it’s so intoxicatingly dizzying that the words are almost caught on his teeth.

“ **You just want to defile every holy place in France, you perverted old man** ,” Lafayette eventually says breathlessly, his last words melting into a moan of pleasure when George adds a third finger. His boyfriend had used as much spit as possible in place of lube to make Gilbert comfortable, and is now using three of his fingers to work Lafayette’s hole. Sex was a much more pleasant experience for the both of them when Gil was stretched appropriately─Washington had been blessedly endowed, and the pain was only erotic for so long.

“ **Well, I don't hear you telling me ‘no’, you sex-crazed nympho.** Do you want me to stop?” George responds cooly, his lips sending tingles rushing down to meet the nerves in Gilbert’s ass as they brush against his ear. There’s the faintest hint of a smile in the older man’s voice, and the words are accompanied by action─his fingers stopping mid-thrust. It gets the desired reaction─Lafayette mewls like a hungry cat, bucks his hips against George’s hand desperately.

“No, George, _don't you dare_ ,” Lafayette snarls his words, before starting to grind his hips against the stall door in hopes for friction elsewhere. It works slightly, considering the only thing separating his cock from the door is a thin layer of lacy purple cloth, but it’s not enough. He’s desperate for more. “ _Please_!”

“Please _what_ , baby boy?” George asks, before busying his mouth with sucking hickeys onto the honeyed flesh of Lafayette’s neck. Involuntarily, Lafayette’s head falls to the left so that he can provide his George with enough more room to paint his signature onto his lover. Gilbert loves hickeys, loves giving and receiving them. It told the world that he was George’s, and George’s was his, and that was the most erotic thing of it all for him.

“ _P_ _lease_ , Daddy, can I have your cock?” the younger of the two pleas, using his free hand to reach behind him and palm at the cloth covering his lover’s member. This time George moans at the contact, and the sound makes Lafayette’s cock tug even more against the lace of his panties. The grip on his wrist falls, the warmth of George’s fingers leaves his hole, and he can hear the sound of his boyfriend getting a rubber. A part of him wants to tell him to screw the condom, to just fucking take him─but Lafayette knows better than that. So he continues to rub against the stall door, humping it dirtily if only for a bit of release.

He doesn’t need to wait long, however, because soon there’s the sharp pain of his hole stretching as George’s member slides in. Gilbert cries out─a mix between a yelp and a moan─and the hand on the stall door tightens its grip.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes out, rolling his hips as he slowly adjusts to the width. Behind him, he hears George spit on his cock, before the other man is pushing in again. This time its a little better, and Laf allows himself to relax into it. Once he does, the ecstasy hits him like a crashing wave and his eyes flutter closed again. “Oh God…”

Both of George’s hands move to grip Lafayette’s hips, and he gently nudges his legs further apart. Gilbert can feel his teeth scraping at the bit of exposed shoulder where his shirt had begun falling, and that pain paired with the pleasure rippling from his hole has him on cloud nine.

As the two of them find a steady rhythm, Lafayette finds himself being a little generous with his vocal approval. Moans and curses slip from his mouth, as well as more than a few melodic prayers to George’s name. He can’t help the fact that he tends to get loud, however his Daddy does remind him they’re in a cathedral by clamping his hand tightly over his mouth.

“Shh, baby boy… be nice and quiet for Daddy, and I’ll let you suck me off,” he offers, much to the excited whimpers of Lafayette. To anyone else, this would be more of a reward for George than for Gilbert─however, it wasn’t that much of a secret that the younger got himself off best whenever he was satisfying someone else. Lafayette─selfless in every corner of his life.

“Let me ride you,” Gilbert begs, once George has taken away his hand. He expects that he’ll have to _plead_ ─especially considering the bathroom in a Cathedral wasn’t the most ideal place for some of the kinkier positions─but George is surprisingly compliant with his baby boy today. He gives several more slow, drawn out thrusts before he does pull out and settle down on the toilet─adjusting himself into a comfortable sitting position. Lafayette doesn't waste any time─straddling George’s lap so that they’re facing each other and carefully guiding his lovers hard cock back inside him. His eyes flutter closed in ecstasy as his boyfriend begins to stretch him again, and his face turns into pure bliss once he reaches the base. Biting down hard on his lip to keep himself from crying out, Gil drapes his arms around George’s neck and begins rock his hips against his lovers.

George brings his hand up to cup the side of Lafayette’s face as he rides him, eyes transfixed on the expression of pure euphoria that resides there.

“Can I kiss you?” George asks dazedly, caught in his own rapture despite admiring the adonis that is his boyfriend. Gilbert doesn’t answer verbally, but nods his head eagerly. Unable to help himself now that he’s been given the go ahead, he leans up to capture Gil’s lips with his─of whom immediately responds warmly to the kiss. His mouth moves against George’s with a comfortable fluidity, his tongue slipping past his love’s lips and moving to lock in a power struggle with his tongue.

Together, they stay intertwined that way─Lafayette sliding up and down on his boyfriend’s cock, their lips locked together. They’re so touch starved─this has been the first time they’ve been able to get away from Lafayette’s family long enough for some private time─that it doesn’t take much time for them to feel the building climax forming warmth in the pits of their stomach.

In response to this, George’s hands find themselves gripping tightly at his lover’s hips and guiding his movements. His nails make crescent-shaped crevices in Lafayette’s skin, and the pain only adds to the eroticism for his young lover. The twenty-two-year-old grips George’s shoulders tightly as his tempo increases, the sound of skin against skin filling the bathroom. Sweat begins to coat their skin in a shiny sheen, and some of Lafayette’s hair sticks to his forehead as it escapes from his trademark bun.

“George─” Gilbert breathes, pulling away from the kiss. His hand falls from George’s shoulder to wrap around his own cock, pumping himself in desperate need to get off. “I want to─”

“I know, baby boy. C’mere,” George says, gently guiding Lafayette slow to their original pace. Once more, George slides himself from inside Lafayette─however this time, the younger man drops to his knees between George’s legs.

After tossing the condom into the trash, Laf takes George’s cock into his hand. Slowly at first, he slides his fist along George’s length. In response, the older man’s head falls back and his hands find a fistful of Lafayette’s hair. Once he’s found a steady rhythm and picked up the pace with his hand, Gilbert drops his mouth down onto the tip of George’s cock. His tongue swirls over the tip, lapping up the droplets of precum that had already begun to leak. His free hand travels between his own legs─desperately pumping at his own member in order to find release.

Moving his hand closer to the base of his member, Lafayette attempts to take more of George into his mouth─moving his tongue against his length and over his tip as he bobs his head. He can feel the slight weight of George pushing his head further down, but he doesn’t panic like he used to. He knows George would push him too far without asking first, and that at any time he can get his lovers attention to stop.

Maybe the sexiest thing about being with that man was just how much Gilbert completely and absolutely trusted him.

“Baby boy, I’m gonna─” George doesn’t finish his sentence, but does try pulling Lafayette away from his member in order not to come in his mouth. However, Gilbert’s resists George’s efforts and he becomes more determined in taking more of George’s member in his mouth─the tip of George’s cock just nearly hitting the back of his throat. The message is loud and clear, and George’s tumble into climax falls almost immediately after.

The warmth spreads throughout his mouth, and Lafayette does his best to swallow like George’s good boy─he knows how much his Georgie likes it when he swallows. The sound of his name leaving George’s lips in his release is heavenly, and paired with the knowledge that he did good… it all sends waves of ecstasy rolling through him and soon he’s coming too─spilling into his hand and over his thighs.

When the two of them have both come down from their respective highs, Lafayette rises from his spot between George’s legs and picks up his jeans. As much as he wants to bask in the sleepy afterglow of sex, he knows that it won’t be long before everyone figures out exactly what they’re doing. Still, he can’t help but make a show of bending over and picking up his discarded clothes.

After pulling up his own pants, George comes behind Lafayette─wrapping his arms around the younger mans middle. “You know, we’re going to hell for fucking in a Cathedral, right?”

Laughing, Lafayette leans into George’s embrace for just a moment. “If Heaven doesn’t allow messy bathroom sex in a Cathedral, I didn’t want to go anyways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I’m sorry about that. I need to practice my smut more often, which is why I wrote this and why it’s so bad. I’m really sorry. However, any feedback is good feedback and if you have any ideas on how to improve, I am all ears!
> 
> I’m down to one (1) prompt left. So, if ANY of you have ANY requests, drop them down below, at my tumblr: ofmenialidealisms or at my twitter: latexidermy. I really do want to become more versatile in what I write, so please send me requests ranging from wacky crack fic to serious angst fic. Thank you!


	16. Still (Alex/John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, the cycle continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘In truth, you like the pain. You like it… because you know you deserve it.’

John stared mumbly at the glass in his hands, his vision swimming from the weed and liquor. The smell of blood fills his nose and it takes several minutes for him to shake from his stupor and realize that he's not holding the glass anymore, but shards of it. He balls his hands into fists and the pain brings him further out of his haze. His head aches because all he can hear is wrecked sobbing, and his heart aches because he remembers that he is the cause of the tears.  
  
He remembers the hate that had spilled from his lips, the evil things he'd said to him. Of course, Alexander was never one to give anything less than he got. He’d said things to him too, things that had injured John _and_ his pride. He remembers the way they'd used their words to inflict a pain on each other that their fists could never come close to doing. The chill that had coated the room when John had called him a coward. He remembers all of that through the intoxicated haze, but he can't seem to remember what they'd been fighting over.

Typical.  
  
"I don’t know why I fucking stay with you," he says suddenly, not looking up from the glass shards that have embedded themselves into his palm. He cringes at the idea of pulling them from his hand with tweezers later, but doesn’t let go. He’s grateful for the pain─it’s all he felt these days. Besides the comfortable numb he induces with drugs and alcohol, pain was all he wanted to experience. All that other shit was too hard, too complicated.

The blood spills from his hands and onto the table with a steady flow, where it mixes with the amber liquid of spilled whiskey. Alex’s sobbing quiets into sniffling, and he can hear him desperately trying to get himself together. There's the ruffling of blankets and a loud thud as something hits the floor. Then his voice comes back, hoarse and coated thick with sadness.  
  
"I know why," Alex responds, quiet despite the fierceness in his tone. For the first time since their fight hours ago, John manages to look up and at him.  
  
"I doubt it," he replies, picking a shard from his palm. He gives a hiss from the jarring pain, but numbs it again by taking a swig from the near empty bottle. "I don't deserve someone so broken and so… so goddamn selfish. I don't deserve to be constantly hurt by your bullshit. I’m better than this… this mess of a relationship…”

Silence. It becomes so quiet that he thinks he can hear the drops of blood mixing with the whiskey. He doesn't even know Alex’s left his spot on the couch until his hands are running down John’s chest and his lips are planted on his forehead.  
  
"No, you’re not. You know that, John," he whispers in his ear. Goosebumps prickle along John’s skin, his head involuntarily tilting back into Alexander’s embrace. And so the cycle continues. " **In truth, you like the pain. You like it… because you** **_know_ ** **you deserve it.** "

John snorts so hard that it causes a pain in his nose. But then when there's a chill on his cheeks, he realizes the pain in his nose is because he's starting to cry. Alex’s lips find each tear, and he kisses them until there are too many to clear up.  
  
"Never," John replies with a weak malice in his tone. "I _hate_ you."

If John could hear anything outside of the loud buzzing of thoughts in his head, he would laugh at how pathetic it sounds. He doesn't mean it. He doesn't even know why he voices it. It's not true. He didn’t hate Alexander Hamilton, not even the slightest bit. Not for being so beautiful he couldn't help but play with his flames, not for drawing him in with the promise warmth and leaving him cold, and not for his toxic form of ‘loving’ John… or at least loving John as fiercely as someone as damaged as he could love someone as shattered as John Laurens?  
  
Alex laughs, his voice bitter as the laughter passes his lips and falls like a skewered song on John’s ears. Tears fall harder and a choked sob escapes his throat, and his head falls forward onto the counter. He can feel another chill as Alex pulls his hands away from his chest. Without his own permission, John begins to cry─full out sobbing.

Alexander was right. As much as he refused to admit it to himself, his boyfriend was one hundred percent right. Alex’s screwed idea of love was all John had ever known anyways─shown to him by his father, by the long line of women he tried to smother his sexuality in, by the long line of men he tried to smother his loneliness in… hell, even by his own _self_. John knew that he would never know what to do if someone treated him any better─he wouldn’t know how to act.

He deserved the love his boyfriend gave, no matter how much it hurt. Hell, the more it hurt, the more he deserved it. Afterall, the more toxic Alex became, the more comfortable John felt.  
  
"You don't hate me," Alex whispers, the bitter laugh dancing around the edges of his voice. "You hate _yourself_."

He barely is able to nod his head, but he gets the message because he sighs.  
  
"I hate myself, too. I thought I hated you, but it's just me hating myself. It’s why we deserve each other, Jack. It’s why we can _never_ have better. You and I are doing a public service by keeping our broken selves here… within each other. You know that right?" Alex looks down at him, his bark colored eyes tinted with hope. John wants to say ‘no’. Wants to scream and shout again. Wants to get up and storm out of this relationship. Wants to be better.  
  
Instead, he nods his head again. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A TOXIC RELATIONSHIP. IF YOU OR YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER ACT THIS WAY TOWARDS EACH OTHER, PLEASE EITHER GET OUT OF THE RELATIONSHIP OR SEEK HELP. I DO NOT CONDONE ACTING THIS WAY TOWARDS YOUR PARTNER.


	17. Petulance (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One annoying child and one severely restrained man. Absolutely nothing can go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Move, now.' 'Make me.'
> 
> A LOT of inspo drawn from the washette fic 'The Hotel' and 'Throw Windows'. Two of my favorite washette fics, tbh

George Washington thought himself to be a good man. He worked his 9-5, paid his bills, and drank responsibly. He managed not to have any run-ins with the law besides the occasional parking ticket. He stole from no one, he wasn’t a murderer or a rapist. He did his civic duty on the jury when he was supposed to, paid taxes, raised his foster son as best as he could. He tried hard to be considered a good, upstanding citizen.

So, why did the deities above always feel like _punishing_ him so?

 _I must’ve done something positively horrible in a past life,_ he muses quietly, trying to prevent his eyes from wandering too far from his lawn as he waters his petunias. He knows that temptation was right across the street, wearing daisy dukes and sucking on a lollipop in their lawn.

A few months prior, a new family had replaced the neighbour he had when he first moved in to his house—he had suspected the kind old man had passed on, which was a shame, because he’d liked him very much—and with them, they brought a whole herd of kids. George believed he’d been able to recall six. From what he’d managed to glean from the matriarch of the house, Jane, there were her four kids and their cousins—from France, their grandmother had died and they needed someone to look after them—and the two cousins were twins. One of these cousins was attracted to him, and therein lies George’s problem.

This kid was eighteen, a senior at the local high school. George knew this because he was currently the foster parent of a senior at the school as well, and his foster sons friends spent a lot of time at his house—he knows they drink, so a lot of them avoid getting behind the wheel and simply sleep over—and this kid was one of them. And lord… they were beautiful.

They were tall and lean, a practical Adonis. Long, gorgeous legs often disappeared beneath whatever short skirt or dress they’d chosen to wear to the Washington home on that day. They certainly had an ass that George sometimes caught himself staring at. They were strong, and fit—Alexander had once said that they ran track and did cheerleading at school. They had gorgeous curly hair that they kept in a ponytail, and gorgeous hazel eyes. Thick, soft lips that pulled over gorgeous pearly whites, amazing—

“George! George!” Alexander’s voice snaps the older man clean from his thoughts, and he almost wets the younger boy with the water in his surprise. His petunias are soaked, and the water had begun to puddle out in the road. George gives a withering sigh. “God, old man, turn on your hearing aid. I was trying to ask you something!”

“I’m sorry, son,” George sighs again, striding over to cut the hose. That was enough outside time for the day—he was gonna work himself up into an early grave over this kid. He can feel their—Lafayette, he thinks it was—gaze on him, and the back of his neck becomes burning hot. When it threatens to spread to his cheeks, he turns to Alexander. “What do you need?”

“Laf is coming over. We’re gonna play some video games. That’s cool, right?”

When George looks up, Lafayette is doing exactly as Alex said. Crossing the street with a switch in their hips, abs on display beneath a tight white crop top, and jean shorts entirely too revealing for George’s patience. And that goddamn red lollipop pulling at their lips, revealing just how well they knew how to suck di—

“Yes!” George exclaims, partially to stop his thoughts from becoming anymore crass. He knew this was wrong. Sure, legally the kid was just fine to be the object of his affections. If he was, hypothetically to pursue anything, he would be covered on all bases. He knew all the kids that Alex kept the company of were either legal adults, or about to be. But morally, that's exactly was Lafayette was. A _kid._ If they _did_ have any sort of attraction towards Washington—which, the man was almost positive they didn’t and he was just reading too much into all of their actions—it’d be morally corrupt to even suggest they did something together. And he was a good man. He tried to be. “Yes, that’s absolutely fine. Just… ahem, try not to disturb me. I’ll be in my office.”

Lafayette approaches now, push rose-colored shades up onto their head. They pop the lollipop out of their mouth, and—before George can protest—envelope the older man into a close hug. Arms throw themselves around George’s neck, and lips press against both of his cheeks. For a brief moment George is overwhelmed by the smell of their perfume—they smell almost like candy, he wonders if he tastes like it too—but then he catches himself and tries to gently remove himself from the kids hold. “Hi, Mr. Washington! How are you, today?”

 _Jesus Christ, George, snap out of it—he’s a friendly child, not a fucking sextoy,_ he reprimands himself.

“I’m fine, Lafayette, thank you,” he says formally, clearing his throat in order to gain composure. They’re looking at him with half-lidded eyes, and a knowing smirk on their lips. George feels like he could just melt into the floor right there, and looks to Alexander for help.

His foster son is watching the two of them, seemingly oblivious—and obviously anxious. Of course, he didn’t like to spend too much time around George—even if he had been living with the man for a year.

“You can call me Gilbert, if you’d like. Lafayette is my last name.”

“Well, Gilbert. I’ve got work to do. You two have fun. You know where all the amenities are,” George says quickly, before heading into the house. When he turns to close the door, he catches Lafayette’s eye as they pointedly suck at their lollipop.

He thinks he needs a cold shower.

* * *

When George finally digs himself out of his hole of an office in search of a snack, the house is completely dark and shockingly quiet. He had heard Alex and his friends talking and laughing earlier, but had they’d left somewhere or fallen asleep when it became quiet. Taking his chance to eat in peace—and not have any unfortunate run-ins with his friendly new neighbor—George rubs at his eyes and steps further out of his office. He pauses briefly at the end of the hallway to peak into Alexander’s room—and smiles lightly to himself when he sees the boy cuddled up to his best friend, both sleeping peacefully. On the floor is their other friend, a football player, George thinks. He doesn’t keep up with all of them. But he’s all peacefully asleep, and better yet—the neighbors kid isn’t in sight.

George pretty much assumes they’d gone back home until he makes it down to the kitchen. And then his stomach drops. He curses the skies above in his head, tries his hardest not to scream in sexual frustration.

Standing at his countertop, wearing nothing but a light nightie and eating a bowl of cereal, is Lafayette.

“Oh, monsieur! I thought you’d gone to bed! I’m terribly sorry!” they exclaim the second he appears in their line of vision. Trying his hardest to appear as an authority figure and not a friend, George slips past him to get into refrigerator. The candy smell fills his nose again, and his eyes become level with those long, glorious legs as he bends over. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“No, not at all,” he assures, reaching blindly for lunch meat. His eyes are affixed to Lafayettes legs, and it takes all his willpower to pull them away and focus on the task at hand. He snatches up the mustard before closing the fridge. Much to his surprise—and growing annoyance—that closes a barrier that had kept the small of the two at bay. Now he’s directly in Lafayette’s personal space—so much so, that he can see through the nightgown. See that Lafayette is very pointedly not wearing any underwear.

George closes his eyes, pushes thoughts of bending him over the countertop away. He was an adult. He could control himself. _Couldn’t he?_

“Am I in your way?” Lafayette asks innocently, batting their eyelashes up at him. The facade they give is pure and innocent, but there’s something devilish in their smirk… and dangerous in their eyes. They make no effort to move from where they lean against the counter, which effectively blocks George from getting the bread and scampering away before the little restraint he has breaks. This kid obviously has no idea what they’re getting themselves into—no idea just how easily it would be for George to flip them over and make them _beg_ for mercy. “Sir?”

“Y-yes. I need the bread,” he says, clearing his throat and trying not to appear distracted. “If you could just step to the side a bit, please.”

“No,” Lafayette is openly challenging him—and his patience—now. A thought occurs to George, fleeting but considerably eye-opening. Suppose this kid knew _exactly_ what they were doing—that this wasn’t a game, that they were getting into something that wouldn’t be that easy to get out of. They were certainly old enough to have considered all of this, and he’d obviously done his best to keep them at bay. Maybe if he showed them a taste, just a little sample of the wild side, they’d—

 _No_. George is an adult. He could handle one flirty teenager.

“ **Move,** **_now_** **,** Lafayette,” he says sternly, trying his best to use his Dad Voice. The only voice that usually got Alexander to listen to him, the one he knows was imposing and slightly threatening. “This is highly inappropriate. I won’t ask twice.”

Gilbert looks him in the eyes defiantly, the smirk on their lips deepening into a frustratingly smug smile. **“Make me.”**

For a moment it seems as though they might move anyways, and George goes to reach for the bread. But then Lafayette pulls George down to their height by the collar of his shirt, and the older man quickly realizes just how truly fucked he is for this kid. George relaxes into the kiss before it happens, his mouth opening and moving perfectly against Gilberts when their lips finally meet. His hand drop the sandwich materials to steady Gilberts waist, thumbs absently running over their hip bone. Gilbert pushes against him, he can feel their hardening cock against the bulge in his pants.

Its dizzying for a second—they kiss so hard George runs out of air, and the pressure against his own thigh is enough for the man to take him right there. But then he comes to his senses, tearing away from the kiss with horror and shock painted on his face. Lafayette is left standing there, leaning against the corner and wiping at bruised lips.

“I knew you were a great kisser,” they say, moving out of George’s way now.  He follows them with his gaze, staring dumbly. Few of his thoughts are coherent, and those that are, would probably make this promiscuous kids ears burn. “If you want more, meet me in your office. If not, just go to bed and I’ll be out of your hair.”

With that, Lafayette turns on their heels and begins to walk back up the stairs. George leans against the counter, stares at the bread for several very long minutes.

And decides there were much tastier things to eat upstairs. _Fuck it._


	18. A Walk On The Wild Side (John/Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t belong here. But he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Prison AU
> 
> I’ve always wanted to write a prison AU, but never fully commited the idea to get enough of it finished, so here’s my (self-indulgent, washette filled) prison drabble.

If someone had told Thomas Jefferson two months ago that he would be sitting in the Attica Correctional Facility in an blue and white uniform, he would’ve laughed in their face and went on about how his brand new Givenchy sunglasses cost more than their yearly living wage. And yet, here he was, sitting on the hard mattress of his bunk and trying to stifle back tears. Though he wanted to say he didn’t know how he had wound up here, he would be lying if he did. He knew exactly how he’d wound up in the penal system, and he knew the only way out, too.

Thomas’ father, Peter Jefferson, was the Warden of Rikers’ Island. He’d been trying desperately to move into better politics however, politics that didn’t involve the tarnishing of his name by most of his associates being convicts. Peter had been trying all sorts of new gimmicks and campaigns in order to separate himself from the title of ‘warden’, and that had included nearly isolating his name from that of his half-black son.

Jane Randolph was not only black, but also the sister of Peter’s political rival. With a monthly child support payment of nearly half a million dollars, Peter had bought his son’s mother’s silence. However, Thomas hadn’t been willing to settle for that. He had grown up his entire life being claimed as his father’s son—albeit far away from New York City, in sunny Shadwell, Virginia—and now he was being treat as a dirty little secret? What kind of shit is that?

So he’d done it. Sold his story to a rival politician’s endorsed newsletter, spilling all the dirty secrets about his parents’ marriage, life and his true parentage. And they’d ate it up.

A week later, he’d wound up in prison on charges of possession with intent to distribute. He’d had less than a gram of pot with him—but since he’d been the owner of the vehicle, had been passing the blunt between his friends who were riding with him, and had been caught with a DUI before, there had been no leniency. Though, the young man knew the real reason the Judge threw the book at him. It was the same reason that very Judge had bounced him on his lap as a kid and bought him brand new coloring books.

He knew and had ties with Peter Jefferson.

Thomas knows all of this, and still… he stares at the cell around him with contempt. With fury. He _shouldn’t_ be here. All he’d wanted was for his father to give him the same attention he gave his work. The same love, and support, and nourishing. He hadn’t done anything too offensive, hadn’t committed some awful violent crime. He wasn’t a thief, or a pedophile, or a murderer. But here he was. With the sleaziest and grimiest that lovely New York had to offer.

“Hey, kid. Lighten the fuck up will you? You’re making my book all sad with your moping,” a voice says, and the voice is strong enough to snap the young inmate from his distant trance. Thomas looks up from where he’d been glaring burning holes into the bars of the cell in efforts to melt them away, looks over to where the man had spoken from—viciously wiping the tears he hadn’t known had fallen from the wells of his eyes.

“Don’t be an asshole,” he snaps back at the man, though his voice shakes and lacks the courage he’d tried to muster. Its now that Thomas sees that there are three other men in the room with him—not just one, which was what he’d expected. Had he been so caught up in his fathers betrayal that he’d had completely missed not one, but three presences surrounding him. The man that had been speaking is on the bottom bunk across from him, but there’s another man there with him… on the side closest to the wall, at first seemingly sleeping. The other man looks up briefly, and Thomas catches a flash of inquisitiveness on his face before he goes back to seemingly cuddling against the bigger man.

A fleeting thought of, ' _Th_ _at’s his bitch. That could happen to me’,_ passes through Thomas’ mind, but he pushes that thought out of his mind.

“I’m not trying to be, but you see—my roommates and I don’t really fancy mopy little boys with too hot of a head and too short of a temper. And you look like exactly the type,” the man is completely disengaged from his book now, and the look of fury on his face frightens Thomas for the smallest of moments. He wonders now if he has to ‘prove’ himself, if now he’ll be beaten to nothing but a puddle for the slightest of offenses. He takes a deep breath, gathers his courage, and is about to retort when he’s interrupted.

“Lay off him George—” another man, the man above him, starts before Thomas can shoot back. Jeffersons’ bunk is briefly blocked by long legs slipping from the bunk above him and then a freckled face leaning down into his. He instinctively leans back, eyes widening with a bit of surprise and a bit of fright. But then the other man's hazel eyes soften, and he offers a half-cocked smile. Thomas can’t help but smile back, which earns a nod of approval.. “—he ain’t gonna be no trouble. I know it.”

“Oh, and why do you propose that, John?” ‘George’ asks, sitting up now—propping himself on his arm. Thomas watches the strain of veins against his muscles, swallows thickly. Still fears that he may be nothing but a bruised mess seconds from now… but also refusing to allow that fear to control him.

The man lying with him groans in what seems like a great annoyance, before rolling over his ‘cuddle buddy’ and slipping from the bunk. Now that he’s standing, Thomas can see him wearing a form of makeshift makeup on his eyelids and lips, and his nails are painted. His prison uniform has been altered greatly—so that the deep navy jumpsuit arms are wrapped around his waist, and the white undershirt torn into a crop top. There’s a glimpse of sturdy, gorgeous caramel abs before the man turns his back. Thomas shudders with both fear, a tiny bit of disgust. _‘Oh, that’s definitely his bitch.’_

“Does it matter whether or not he’s gonna be trouble, kids?” the man in the Penitentiary Crop-Top asks, stretching again as though he’s just woken from the longest sleep of his life and going over to the toilet. Thomas is a bit taken aback when he doesn’t sit to pee, instead leading on the wall while he goes. He had thought bitches in prison were supposed to be far more submissive than that, but the act just screams masculinity.  “He’ll be moved soon. You know they don’t put newbies with George. Not after what happened to poor little Seabury.”

“What happened to Seabury?” Thomas finds himself asking nervously, wringing his hands before he can stop the motion from happening. He looks to the man leaning above his bunk, feels like a little kid looking to a mother for comfort. Was the other man George’s bitch for a _reason_ ? Was this George—who actually looked a little unassuming, though far bigger than the bunk allowed, he seemed like the type of man you find in a CEO office somewhere—actually some sort of _behemoth_ , that had a habit of bashing in the faces of newbies?

“Oh, _nothin’_ ,” the man assures though, clapping Thomas’ shoulder goodnaturedly. The knot that had been forming in his stomach untwists itself, and Thomas relaxes against the hard prison-issue mattress. “Our buddy likes to make a point sometimes.” John says these words, but its painfully obvious he’s hiding details from him—to spare him, most likely. The knot starts to twist again.

The ‘bitch’ begins returning to his spot on the bottom bunk—much to the grumbling protests of his… what, _lover_? _Boyfriend_? That seemed too juvenile for this situation, too sweet and romantic for what this really was. “Yeah, and use my ass to do it. He was so rough, I couldn’t sit straight for _weeks_. Like, babe, I wasn’t the one to call me a faggot, why did I have to suffer? Anyways, we tell them not to place us with the homophobes but do COs actually listen to anything anyone says? Of _course_ not. God, I miss our Lexi.”

Thomas shudders in horror, too caught up in the young man's previous words to really think too much about who this ‘Lexi’ might be. His own ass was starting to hurt at the thought of being brutally raped by this big guy that seemed to enjoy being rough on his lovers. The kid seemed alright with it, but that wasn’t gonna stop Thomas’ assumptions and imagination from conjuring up the worse situation. “I’m not gonna be your bitch like him, if that’s what your assuming, _George_. You might wanna look elsewhere to terrorize your fuckin’ newbies.”

John gives a boisterous laugh at that, pulling away from Thomas’ bunk to lean on his own and laugh. The other kid at first seems offended by Thomas’ words, but then he too starts to giggle on the look of pure annoyance that comes over George’s face. Thomas can’t see what is funny—and at first, thinks they’re laughing at him. His arms cross defiantly over his chest, and he tries to set his face in a way that one might assume he was not-to-be-fucked-with. Judging by the growing volume of the laughter, he is doing a miserable job.

“What?! Dude!” John exclaims, when his laughter has subsided enough to form words. “No, Laf ain’t George’s bitch, or nothin’ like that. You couldn’t control that idiot if you put a leash on him, and he’s got a thing for collars.”

“Hey!” Laf squeaks indignantly, still giggling to himself. George has started to smile now, though its more at his apparent affection for the younger man beside. “I told you that in confidence!”

“No, it’s not like that at all. Lafayette is just gayer than a goddamn unicorn shittin’ rainbows. They were together on the outside, before the Penn. Plus, George has a known affinity for the cute li’l twinks. Don’t ya, Washy?”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth, John,” George snarls, fixing his face into annoyance once he realizes the attention is back on him now. He wraps an arm around Laf’s shoulders, bringing him closer. He seems… hurt, almost. At the idea that he was some evil rapist that was keeping Lafayette with him through intimidation. For a moment, Thomas feels bad—wants to apologize for assuming. Now that he pushes his own thoughts from his mind, he realizes that the natural way they seem to coexist together is almost… cute. Lafayette leans into George’s large figure, places his hand on his chest in order to soothe him. And he even makes a point of looking over at Thomas and giving George a quick, cute, messy kiss—though the action is done in teasing.

“Yeah, John. You know I’m touchy ‘bout my man. Don’t get your new li’l friend shanked in the showers,” Laf teases, though he giggles so Thomas assumes the threat is a fleeting suggestion at best. He cracks a smile, and the other man notices it. “By God, he _smiles_! He’s not the defensive piece of shit we thought he was! Babe, you owe me like… eight honey buns.”

“Goddamn you and your sweet tooth,” George hisses, slapping Lafayette’s ass affectionately and shoving him to the side. Laf responds by blowing him a kiss and picking up his CD player from the floor, popping one headphone in. “Guess there goes my book. Now that you three seem to be all chatty, wanna give us your story, kid?”

Thomas stops. He’d heard a rumor from his cousin that you’re not supposed to talk about what you’re in for when you’re in prison. However, now that the other men had opened up—and he realized that as long as he wasn’t a homophobic, hotheaded prick, he would be fine with them—he felt that he owed them the same in a sense.

“Possession,” he decides to say, avoiding the others eyes. He purposefully omits most of the story, not wanting to give away too much. Not wanting them to know the humiliation that burned in his face when they put those handcuffs on wrists, knowing exactly what kind of high class person he was. He was around them now, and he couldn’t afford to be seen as a rich sissy boy. “A bit of pot. They gave me six years.”

John frowns, seems confused. There’s obviously a piqued interest, but Thomas doesn’t know if he wants John to ask the questions that settle on his mind or not. “ _Six years?_ For some _weed?_ That sounds a little… harsh, don’t ya think? You’re a first time offender, you’ve gotta be. Should’ve just been some probation.”

“Well, it wasn’t. Can we move on?” Thomas asks, and much to his surprise, John reluctantly obliges. He’s left with no choice, as the air fills with a sharp whistle and the other two in the cell begin getting up. Lafayette groans, says something to George that makes the other man laugh. John jumps down and slips into his shoes.

“Chow time,” John says slowly, almost as if he’s gauging Thomas’ reaction. “You’ve been sitting on your own lately, but there’s a spot at our table… if you’d like.”

Thomas looks up at the face of Lafayette, who is giving all of his attention to George. Looks to George, who’s barely paying him or John any mind—too much busy listening to whatever enthralling story Lafayette. Finally, he looks up at John and gives a small smile.

“Sure. I’d like to.”

And John smiles back.


	19. Simple Instructions (Angelica & Eliza)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the oldest isn’t easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘You disobeyed me.’ ‘I know, but—’ ‘No, no ‘buts’. I gave you a direct command and you deliberately disobeyed me.’
> 
> We see so many protective!Angelica fics bUT LETS BE REAL, ELIZA DOESN’T THINK SHE NEEDS PROTECTING

When Phillip and Catherine Schuyler both passed away, Angelica had immediately known that her two young sisters would become her full responsibility. It went unsaid during the legal proceedings that she’d look after them—afterall, she was of the legal age, their only surviving immediate family and the only one willing to finish the raising of a twelve and sixteen-year-old.

The Schuyler fortune and family business had gone to her for her to manage—though, vulturous ‘advisers’ followed quickly behind—, but with this sudden monetary freedom she would also be tasked with guardianship of her siblings. Though distraught at the time, and slightly overwhelmed, Angelica had been _alright_ with that. She wouldn’t have had it any other way, in fact.

But lord, no one told her it was going to be both a blessing, and a curse.

Peggy wasn’t of any concern for now—she was still in middle school, the biggest problems Angelica had out of her were getting her to do her homework. But Eliza… she had become a bit of a headache.

Now, she and Eliza were only four years apart, but those years seemed to gape when it came time for Angelica to stop being ‘sister’ and start being ‘mom’. See, her little sister—her sweet, docile, _kind_ sister—had entered that phase of her life where no one could tell her anything. She was sixteen going on seventeen, and she wanted to take control of her own life—set her own path. She wanted independence, above all else. The only problem Angelica had with _that_ was that this sweet, quiet girl who had spent most of her life being a ‘goody-two-shoes’ was bringing home tatted, loud, rebellious teenage boys and calling them her ‘friends’.

Especially that damned Alexander Hamilton. Nineteen-years-old and his mind was already far too smart to do him any good. He went to college with Angelica, they took some of the same Women's Studies classes together. She knew how intelligent he was, but she also knew that an intelligent mind and a bored mind would always be a dangerous mix. There had been more than a few times he’d come to class hungover, or high, or late because he’d been bailed out of jail. She didn’t want that kind of guy around her sister, and yet Eliza was positively _taken_ with him.

Angelica saw the way she looked at him—and she saw the way he looked at her, too. She didn’t _like_ it.

Now, don’t get her wrong. She’d been that age just a few years ago, she _absolutely_ knew what it was like to be young and in love. However, she also had known better then—just like Eliza did _now_. Both girls were well aware that had their parents been alive, they would’ve absolutely murdered Eliza for being with that kind of crowd. Hell, they’d tried to murder _Angelica_ for being with that kind of crowd. Angelica was being more than lenient… her little sis could keep them around, but only when Angelica was around, too. In order to keep an eye on them.

So she’d given Eliza a directive when she packed up for a business trip to London—had thought she’d made her words perfectly clear. ‘Do not hang out with that boy, or any of his greasy friends, while I’m gone.’

Simple instructions. Should’ve been easily followed. Of course, they weren’t.

When she walks into their home the evening after arriving from the airport, to find Alexander fucking Hamilton and his greasy friends sitting around their living room? It takes everything for the twenty-year-old to not hit the roof. To make matters worse, all were engaged in varying forms of illegal activity. Angelica is 99% sure that the man making out with the boy in the corner is at least thirty, and she’s not stupid enough to not know what a bong looks like.

At least one of the boys notices her entrance and tries to hide it. She liked him—he was significantly gentler than his friends, and a bit more refined—but at that moment, she could’ve throttled him.

“Elizabeth Schuyler,” Angelica snaps, before she’s even realized it. And there’s her sister—in the lap of Alexander, whispering into his ear about something. Looking just as young and innocent as Angelica saw her in her mind's eye but her hand was snaking towards something that was _definitely_ not PG-13. Eliza snaps her attention up, and her eyes widen for just a second before she attempts to school her face into a nonchalant expression. God, if Angie could read her like a book, what was the ever-intelligent Alexander seeing? An easy target? “A moment in the kitchen, please?”

Luckily enough for her, Eliza comes with ease—doesn’t fuss or draw the attention of any of the more-distracted friends. Several people make a teasing ‘ooh’ sound and laugh, but otherwise there’s no commotion. Or at least, not yet. Angelica hasn’t gotten her hands on her sister yet.

“Look, Angie, I can explain—”

“ **You disobeyed me** , **”** Angelica says coldly, cutting her off with a raised hand. She doesn’t know if she’s more angry that her sister hadn’t listened, disappointed that Eliza was choosing to act this way, or sad that it had gotten to this point. She doesn’t know exactly what she feels—but it has stinging reminders of betrayal.

 **“I** **_know_** **, but—”** Eliza insists. Angelica wants to stop, wants to hear her out like she would as a sister. But then remembers that it’s her job to protect these girls, her job to make sure that they were safe. She can’t afford to be sister right now, and she makes that known.

 **“No, no ‘buts’. I gave you a direct command and you deliberately disobeyed me,”** Angelica snaps back. Luckily, her sister doesn’t try to argue her point anymore—simply bows her head and has the decency to be ashamed. “When I tell you to do something, Elizabeth, I expect you to listen to me. There’s man in there older than I am—what the hell is he doing with sixteen-year-olds?! What the hell is he doing in our house?! Don’t get me started on the pot—drugs, Eliza, are you fucking crazy?! And don’t you _dare_ try to tell me you didn’t have your hand on Alexander’s—… his… his dick! You’re a child!”

“Stop calling me that. _Elizabeth_. You have no right to call me that,” Eliza mutters her words barely audible, before getting bolder. She raises her eyes, and there’s a fiery defiance in them. A fiery defiance that had once stared Angelica back in the mirror. “You’re _not_ my mother.”

Leave it to her stupid sixteen-year-old sister to nitpick at trivialities when she was met with Angelica’s genuine, reasonable concerns. She stares at her sister stupidly for several moments—trying to figure out if Eliza is deliberately acting like brat to start a fight, or if she couldn’t come up with any other argument besides that one.

She lands on the former, and decides that if her little sister wants a fight? She’ll _give_ her one.

“Goddammit, don’t you think I _know_ that?!” she’s hissing now, hand slapping against the dining room table but voice angry and cold. It seems to have its desired effect—Eliza jumps, finally manages to look like the sister Angelica knew. Still, the older of the two won’t back down. This it—the climax, the boiling point. This argument had been coming for a _long time_ now, she’d seen it on the horizon. She knew Eliza would test her patience at least once, had tried to delay the inevitable. But it was time to show her little sister that her patience—and her temper—was not to be tested. “I’m not your mother, you’re right, but I am your _guardian_ ! My job is to _protect you_ ! And when I tell you to do something, I expect you to listen to me! I’m not trying to _suffocate_ you, Eliza, I’m trying to _save_ you! God, if only you knew how goddamn _stupid_ you look!”

Thankfully, her sister doesn’t have another retort. Or if she does, she bites her tongue—crosses her arms over her chest and glares holes into the marble floor. _Well, at least she’s somewhat smarter than I was at her age,_ Angelica thinks bitterly.

Sighing, she drags a hand over her face, tries to think of someway salvage their relationship—to make her little sister see _her_ side. Afterall, she already knows what Eliza is thinking—knows everything that’s going through her brain. She’d been here before—in her little sisters shoes, arguing with her mother in the kitchen about some boy or some friend. _I love him. You’re suffocating me. I need my freedom._

God, Angelica couldn’t even recall that boys’ name if she tried. And she knows that in four years, Eliza will be the same way. Alexander will be a blep on her memory, a faraway thought that had seemed to be in another life. She just doesn’t want any mistakes this boy gets into to affect her little sisters future… admittedly, she also just wants to protect her from heartbreak.

If only Angelica had known back then… if only her mother were here to help her sister see, help her realize just how stupid she was being. _One day, your child will treat you the way you treat me._ God, didn’t it feel like it?

“‘Liza, I… I don’t want to take you away from him. Or vice versa,” she tries, reaching for her sisters hand. Breathes a sigh of relief when Eliza doesn’t snatch it away. “and I know you don’t want to live your whole life with me shadowing you, watching your every move. You won’t. Just… trust me. When I’m not around, don’t have me around. And once you turn eighteen, I’ll back off. I promise.”

“Angelica. I’m gonna grow up before I turn eighteen,” she whispers.

“I know,” Angelica sighs, wrapping an arm around her sisters shoulder and pulling her into a close hug. _Doesn’t she know_ ? Soon Eliza would be grown, and so would Peggy, and she wouldn’t be able to protect them anymore. She _knows_ but still… maybe it wouldn’t hurt anyone to keep Eliza young and innocent for just a while longer. “Humor me.”


	20. You've Opened Up My Eyes (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, what George was doing was the ultimate form of hypocrisy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Are you high? 
> 
> whEW I REALLY MISSED THIS COUPLE. Title is taken from the song Back to the Stars by Until the Ribbon Breaks.

In retrospect, what George Washington was doing was the ultimate form of hypocrisy. Maybe in the future, he’d look back on this moment and muse at the irony of the situation. But at that very moment, being a hypocrite was the least of his worries.

For you see, he had made a _great_ mistake. Had broken his number one rule. _Do not mix business with pleasure._ And of course, with that, his number two rule:─because he could never fuck up simply, no the messes he made had to be grand─don’t ever date a _fucking_ junkie.

At first, when Hercules had come to him with his eyes brimming with tears, begging for him to put a stop to selling to this Gil person, George had dismissed him without much thought. Hercules knew what every dealer knew─no one wanted to aide an addict, but not selling to your friends didn’t put food on the table. Money was the endgame in this life, above all else. Was Washington aware that drugs wrecked lives? Of course─had witnessed it first hand, been reared by an addict. But he hadn’t exactly gotten into this life with a clear conscience and his morals intact─things needed to be done, money needed to be made. And sometimes people had to suffer for it.

But goddamn… had he _known_ ? Had he known just how truly ruined this man would leave him? Well, George reckons he would’ve dumped an entire years _supply_ down the toilet.

Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette─or, as he preferred to be called, Laf─was not the average addict. But that was the cliche in every story, wasn’t it? _They’re not average, they’re special_ … as if that somehow made them more deserving of redemption. Still, it was the honest to God truth. George had thought he’d seen the entire spectrum of junkie─from functioning wall street cokehead, to drug-addled prostitute willing to sell her soul for just one more rush. But Lafayette was neither functioning nor non-functioning─no, he walked the dangerous line in the middle. One where the only thing that would ever stop him from getting his high was his pride and dignity.

Looking beyond his obvious─increasingly worsening─meth habit, Lafayette himself was a beautiful _person_. A kind soul, who would give the last of his rent money to help feed his neighbor. He was selfless, truly and wholesomely. They all were, in the beginning. The thing is, George had never before seen someone fight succumbing to the dark recesses of addiction so truly. He _had_ seen a lot of scummy people in the life, and a lot of good people get sucked under, but he had never seen someone fight it so hard.

But Lafayette _did_. Day in and day out ever since he’d realized his problem, he fought the demon that possessed him with every ounce of strength he had. He tried. Washington didn’t like to make a habit of excusing any junkie’s behavior, but even _he_ would have to admit that. Lafayette tried his damndest. He fought to get clean umpteenth times, went to every rehab that his family─and later, George─could afford. But dependency is a nasty bitch, and once she has her claws in you… well…

He’d been doing good, though─ _great,_ even. George had taken care of him during the first week of the detox─had held him down when he’d screamed and begged for a hit, had bathed him when he’d run out of sheets to sweat through, had fed him soup and toast when his stomach couldn’t stand the sight of anything else. They’d gone and gotten through it together─George was so _sure_ it’d be _different_ this time. Lafayette had _him_ now, and he wasn’t going to let him go back on that shit. Besides, Washington _controlled_ distribution and trafficking in New York─no one else would sell to Lafayette, they wouldn’t dare.

It was _supposed_ to be different. For at least a year, it’d looked like it _would_ be.

When the worst of it was over, Gil quit stripping─George knew environment was a big player in the lives of addicts, and now that Laf had George’s monetary support, he could get out of there─and had gotten a job at a coffee shop near downtown. He changed his circle of friends─kept the company of less junkies and more of his coworkers, though also hanging out with Washington’s dealer friends wasn’t much of an improvement─and had even taken up painting as a catharsis for when his cravings got bad. He went back to school, got in touch with his family again.

The two of them would spend lazy afternoons draped over one another, sometimes. Just the sounds of the busy New York streets and Lafayette’s pencil against paper─content… _happy_ , even.

George doesn’t know why he did it─any of it. Why he fell in love with him, why he cared for him, why he let him in and let him see that he too, was a broken man. He knew better, he fucking _knew_ the reality of addiction─had seen it with his own eyes countless times growing up. Junkies couldn’t be _trusted_. They couldn't be _saved_.

And yet, none of that made it hurt any less when Lafayette gave him that loopy grin, stared at him with pupils blown. George had known something was off the second he walked in the door─could see it in his footsteps, his erratic behavior. He had known when Gil had managed to clean the whole apartment in under an hour, had known when he blew through two packs of cigarettes. Had known when he couldn’t focus on one drawing at a time, was desperately flipping through his sketchbook every few seconds in search of a new, clean canvas. George had seen the signs. Still, when he asked… he naively hoped that the answer would be ‘no’. That there’d be some easy explanation to all these things. He prayed to the stars above that he’d be wrong, and he’d apologize and they’d go back to normal.

He hoped… but he already knew that none of that will happen.

**“Are you high?”**

Lafayette didn’t even seem taken off guard by the question─didn’t even bother to lie, to offer some fake explanation. He had been expecting it then─this moment where the faux aura of normalcy he’d tried to put up came tumbling down. His smile did at least fall right from his face, lips forming a frown instead. George hates himself for wanting to kiss it away, wanting to cup his face and tell him everything is alright.

Especially when everything is most certainly _not_.

“... Yes,” Gil had said slowly, and it’d been obvious he was on his comedown. He at least had the decency to look ashamed, eyes averting from George’s in favor of his shoes. George stared him down─refused to let up. “I─I wasn’t supposed to… I didn’t… I fucked up.”

“Who gave it to you?” George asked, not bothering to confirm his boyfriends words─Lafayette knew how deep in shit he was with his boyfriend, he didn’t need to rub salt in the wound _yet_ . Washington had noticed that his voice was shaking then─at first, with what he thought was raw emotion but then quickly realized was unbridled fury. His entire body was tensed with barely contained rage, and he began to feel as though he might explode. That could be why his voice came out in a shout next─making Laf flinch, and look up with meek eyes. “ _Who gave it to you_ , _Gilbert_!?”

“Charles! Charles Lee!”

And that brings us to this point of irony. This moment, with his gun pressed against the head of some stupid undergrad that had made the grave mistake of thinking of his pockets before Lafayette’s life. George knows that fifteen years ago he’d _been_ that undergrad, so money hungry that he was willing to take advantage of others’ suffering in exchange for a couple of dollars. Knows that he still _is_. A crime boss now, with an empire, but still so money hungry even the love of his life battling addiction couldn’t pull him from the clouds.

And yet… and yet, he seeks to crucify this man for being the exact person George is.

“Please, please, sir, don’t kill me,” the boy sobs, and George’s eyes refocus. And this time, they’re blown wide open. He sees─he finally sees the destruction he’s caused, the cycle he’s helped perpetuate. He distinctly notices the poor child has wet himself, and has curled in on himself in fear. Washington’s grip on the gun tightens─inside, he recoils at the realization of who he’d become. “Please! I’m sorry, please!”

“Get the fuck out of town. Don’t come back,” George whispers coldly, reholstering his weapon. Charles, obviously sensing a chance that may not come again, scampers to his feet and takes off down the alleyway. He disappears into the shadows eventually, footsteps slamming against cracked pavement─hopefully gone from the city forever.

George turns his attention to Lafayette─who had been staring at the scene in shock, tears dripping down his face. He tries not to wonder if those tears are fearful, if he’s made the poor boy _afraid_ of him. Tries to be stern, when he really wants to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. After all, there was still work to do─it was finally time for George to think of someone beside himself. “Do you want my help again?”

Lafayette stares at the spot where Lee had been moments ago, and then at the outstretched hand of the drug kingpin… and for a moment, George fears he won’t take it. But then he gives a sad smile before closing the space between them─delicate, shaking fingers lacing through Washington’s calloused, strong ones.

And George realizes he’s ironically and fatally _hopeless_ for him.


	21. Babysitting (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A setup, a game of hide ‘n’ seek, and a meddling sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘I’m sorry, what do you mean you’re the babysitter? My sister asked me to babysit─oh, that conniving little witch.’
> 
> I get all my prompts off of Tumblr and I’m sorry this just kept screaming ‘WASHETTE’ at me

“The baby needs to be fed again at around 11 today─I’ve already given him breakfast. I pumped milk for today, formula is fine for the rest of the weekend but mix the breast milk and the formula to help him finish, alright? If he gets hungry before 11, its fine to feed him but just keep up with the times─I like to keep him on a regular eating schedule. There are more than enough diapers here for today, but I forgot to pick up diapers for the rest of the weekend─so here’s the cash if you need anything. Patsy and Frannie need to take noon naps every day─Patsy usually goes down easy, but Frankie thinks she’s a big girl so she’ll argue you into the ground over it. No sweets for anyone other than cereal until after lunch, at _least_. And, the girls can’t─George, are you even _listening_ to me?” Martha pauses her lecture to look up at her brother from where she’d been searching through her daughters’ overnight bag, eyes narrowing and voice going stern. George gives a weary sigh and nods, rubbing his temples and trying to remember everything.

When Martha had asked him to babysit for the weekend─while she went out of town on a business trip─he’d been more than happy to oblige his little sister. Ever since her divorce she’d been pretty much alone in parenting─Daniel was no good with children by himself, so he had happily resigned himself to raising their children financially rather than actually being there. He knew that being a single, working mom was hard─especially with children so young. He didn’t mind taking his young nieces and nephew for the weekend─figured it’d be a fun way to take a break from his own work and give them some sort of father figure. Besides─he didn’t see the kids often ever since Martha moved further from the city, and he had missed them and his sister greatly.

But for god's sake, he could barely believe how much a helicopter mom that Martha had become.

“You worry too much, Martha,” he says calmly─ignoring the expression that screams ‘hypocrite’ she takes on─taking the car seat from her and hooking it over the bend in his arm. He looks down a smiles at little Jack, who gives him a gummy grin back and kicks his feet. “I’ve looked after children before. I raised you and Lawrence, didn’t I? You two turned out alright.”

This elicits a relenting smile, and she hands over the girls’ overnight bag. They both turn at the same time to check on them─the youngest girl, Patsy, has already made herself comfortable in his living room, watching Paw Patrol and Frannie sits quietly beside her, playing a handheld game. “They won’t be too much trouble. I’ll pick them up Monday night. Patsy and Frannie’s school uniforms and backpacks are in the duffel bag…  thank you so much for this, George.”

“You’re welcome. Now go, go, you’re going to miss your flight at this rate,” he says, jokingly nudging her towards the door. Martha waves and blows kisses goodbye to everyone, before her brother finally closes the door behind her. Once he sees Martha’s car pull out of his driveway and disappear from his neighborhood, he exhales and sets all the excess bags on the floor.

For the first hour or so, things are really quiet. Frannie had, at some point, wandered into his office to read some books, Patsy had begun playing with her dolls on the floor and Jack had dozed off after eating at 11. He’s just ordered a pizza for lunch when the doorbell rings.

“Well, that was fast,” he says to Patsy, who tilts her head at him curiously. “You hungry for pizza?”

Her head bobs up and down excitedly, and he chuckles at her enthusiasm as he opens the door. His hand is going to retrieve his wallet from his pocket when, to his surprise, he realizes that the person standing there is not a pizza delivery man but a boy. Or rather, young man. He looks like he can’t be older than twenty or twenty-one and judging by the ID hanging around his neck, he’s a college student. For a second, George is sidetracked by how attractive the kid actually is─honey brown eyes lined in deep black, curly dark locks pulled back into a ponytail and… wait, is he wearing lipgloss?

“Hi,” George says slowly, when he realizes he’s been staring like a creep and not saying anything. The boy lifts his hand in a wave, and smiles brightly at him. _He_ is _wearing lip gloss_. “Um… can I help you?”

“Hi! Martha Washington called me? She needed me to babysit at this address?” he asks, tilting his head. He’s got an accent─German? French? Whatever it is, it’s very beautiful─lilting and soft around his words. “I’m Gilbert, but the girls know me as Laf. I’m their babysitter.”

“ **I’m sorry,** **what do you mean you’re the babysitter? My sister asked me to babysi─oh that conniving little witch** ,” it takes a few seconds, but George realizes mid-sentence what his sister had tried to pull. She’d known how isolated he’d been lately─how much of his time was either spent at his work or at home. He’d been in a relationship earlier in the year, but it had ended poorly and he simply hadn’t made the effort to date again. She’d been begging him to go on dates for the past few months. _Download Tinder, get back out there, George. You can’t spend your entire life alone._ He’d brushed her off.

Now he realizes that had been a mistake. She hadn’t sent Gilbert over there to _babysit_. She’d sent him there to _hookup_.

“Laf!” Patsy’s voice exclaims, before Gilbert can respond. She darts around her Uncle to wrap her arms around the kids leg and he grins—bending down to wrap his arms around her lift her onto her hip. “Uncle George, this is Lafayette! They my best friend and they babysit us when we home! Oh, Mommy says we can't call them ‘he’, ‘cause it hurts they feelings.”

George tilts his head at the bo— _kid_ , as their cheeks flush and they shift their weight from foot to foot. Almost as if they’re embarrassed or nervous. Gently, they tap Patsy’s cheek twice as a chastise. “ _Chut, petit ange._ I’m sorry, have I misunderstood something, _monsieur_?”

“No, my sister just got confused, I suppose. Why don’t you come in, Gilbert? I’d hate for you to have come all this way to waste your time,” George says, stepping aside so that they can slip into the house. His nose is briefly overcome with a strong but sweet, floral scent─and he pauses to take in this stranger. They seem innocuous enough─they wear a backpack but he doubts there’s anything dangerous inside of it. And judging by the light sweater and simple jeans, they weren’t exactly in the appropriate attire to be pulling any house robberies or murders.

Patsy seemed to trust them. All of this, additional to what he already knows about his bullheaded sister? George knows the kid isn’t lying, and hates that Martha had wasted his time like this.

Lafayette immediately takes on his role as a babysitter, setting Patsy down and offering to color with her. Once his niece is successfully distracted, George pulls out his phone to text his sister─he had a few choice words for her.

Of course, his message of _SOS what the hell did you do?_ goes unanswered, but that’s no surprise. She had probably boarded her flight immediately after calling this Lafayette and he knew exactly why. _Sneaky little rat._

When he steps back into the living room, Frannie has joined the two on the floor─drawing something in a notebook and chatting happily with Lafayette about school. George gives a small smile, joins them by sitting on the couch and picking up the book that Frances had abandoned. Lafayette glances up at him briefly before going back to the coloring book.

“Patsy wants to play hide ‘n’ seek tag, _Monsieur Washington_ ,” they say without looking up again, and he watches their hands as they switch between crayons. Their eyes finally do lift to him when he says nothing, and George raises an expectant eyebrow. “She wants you to play with us.”

“What about Jack?”

“He’s asleep, _non_? We will be here, should he wake. I think it’s a lovely idea─I love hide ‘n’ seek. It’s my favorite game,” this time when Lafayette speaks, they’re speaking more towards the girls─who are becoming more and more visibly excited. It becomes painfully obvious that declining just isn’t an option.

“Oh, _please_!” Frannie begs when he still gives no definite answer, looking up at him with wide, gray eyes. Just like her mother, she knew that George had a hard time saying ‘no’ to the classic puppy dog face. “ _Please_ , Uncle George? Play with us? You’re so good at hide ‘n’ seek!”

Sighing, George massages his temples before nodding. _What could go wrong?_ “Alright, sure. Who will be it?”

“I wanna be it!” Patsy insists, and Frannie seems to be perfectly fine with that arrangement. Laying on her stomach and covering her face with her hands, Patsy begins loudly counting before either adult can say anything. Frannie and Lafayette immediately bolt off, laughing to themselves and whispering about potential hiding spots. George rises from the couch and looks around the house before deciding the perfect spot.

 _I’d forgotten what a nerve wracking game hide ‘n’ seek was,_ he thinks to himself, once he’s successfully hid himself away. Ever the good sport, he’s standing as still and quiet as he possibly can in the hallway storage closet. It’d been an easy hiding place to pick─the closet, with how small it was, often blended into the hallway and went mostly unnoticed. Patsy certainly wouldn’t find him there─at least, not first. However, the waiting game of being found might have him caving in.

He’s just about to open the door and peek out when its pulled open and quickly slammed closed. At first, George thinks he’s been caught─even goes to open his mouth and announce that she’d caught him. But then a manicured hand is slapping over it, and he realizes that Lafayette has chosen to share a hiding spot with him.

“Sorry, _monsieur_! She’d almost found my last hiding place,” they whisper, removing their hand quickly once they've realized what they've done. Blinking into the darkness, George can make out Lafayette’s slight frame─and that sweet, floral smell fills the small closet. The really… really small closet.

George swallows thickly when he notices just how close the two of them are to each other. The space had already been a bit cramped when he’d slipped in there himself─he was a big man, and it was just meant to be a small storage space─but with two bodies, there was a striking amount of closeness occuring. It doesn’t help that Lafayette is so small, and smells so sweet, and is looking at him with such bright eyes─

 _Oh God. I_ do _need to get laid._

“ _Monsieur_ Washington, I have to confess something. I’m not naive. I know why Martha called me over today, and I believe…” they pause when George raises an eyebrow, quickly averting their gaze nervously. “I believe she’s told you something that I confessed to her in private. I just want you to know that my… er, _schoolyard affections_ won’t affect the way I interact with the girls.”

“Firstly, Gilbert, call me George,” he says, placing a hand on their shoulder and smiling gently at them. This seems to relax their nerves considerably, and they nod their head. “Secondly, what on _Earth_ are you talking about?”

“Um… she didn’t tell you about my… my crush? On you?” Lafayette asks, horror filling their voice. George shakes his head slowly and he’s sure the kid would fall over and faint if it weren’t for the close proximity between them. He waits for a few seconds, hoping that an explanation would be offered. To his luck, one is. “Martha knows that I follow your political career─a black bisexual man dominating the political minefield in such a Southern state gave me… well, you’d have to understand where my admiration comes from. You gave me hope─especially after that speech you made at Pride Parade last year… about the genderqueer community. It felt like you were speaking directly to me. And well, through my following I have developed this… this juvenile _crush_ on you. I mean, I don’t mean to speak out of turn, I know this is kind of unprofessional but you are extremely handsome and carry yourself well and I… I am going to shut up now.”

“Oh my God… she played the both of us, didn’t she?” George asks, amusement and awe in his voice. He should be mad, he truly should─she was meddling in feelings and lives that weren’t her business. But Martha had not only attempted to hook him up with her babysitter, but she had attempted to hook him up with someone that was actually _already_ attracted to him. That was a plotting that even George Washington had to admire.

“ _Excusez-moi_?”

Considering Lafayette had confessed their secret to him, George decides it’s only fair for him to confess to them as well. “Martha… believes I am lonely. And I am, in a sense. I originally thought she sent you over here so that I could, uh… well, get laid.”

Lafayette nearly chokes on their own spit, and the older of the two can feel his face begin to burn. Though, George is surprised at the tension in the air─it’s not awkward, but _very_ thick. _Maybe Martha had been onto something._ The two of them stand in silence for a moment, listening to Patsy and Frannie look for them outside of the door. The girls have made their way into the room next to the closet, and George can hear them searching for them. Any moment now, the closet door would open and the moment would be over.

“ _Monsie_ ─George,” Lafayette says, correcting themselves with a small laugh. They look up at him and then down to the floor, doing that nervous shift from foot to foot. “I… I wouldn’t exactly be opposed to that. If you were interested, at least.”

George opens his mouth to speak─though, he’s unsure of what response would be appropriate in a situation like this─, but is crudely interrupted by the door swinging open and light spilling into the small closet. He tries his hardest to hide his disappointment

“Found you!” Patsy squeals, jumping up and down in her success. Lafayette smiles and gives her a high-five, congratulating her cheerfully. George can’t help but admire just how they're able to slip into façades─go from shy, crushing schoolkid to confident parental figure.

“Uncle and Laffy, sittin’ in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” Frannie singsongs to George, much to the obvious embarrassment of both adults. She’d obviously caught just how close they were standing to each other, or maybe had picked up on the tension in the closet. _Smartass eight-year-olds._ George rolls his eyes at her juvenile teasing, and Gilbert reaches over to playfully clip her ear.

“Frances! _Tais-toi_!” they snip, but Frannie only begins to giggle harder. Sighing in either annoyance or defeat, Lafayette looks at George up from where they’d knelt to Patsy’s height and tilts their head. There’s a twinkle in their eye now─a knowing, flirtatious glint. “Another round of the game, George?”

_Thank you, Martha, you devilish angel._

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monsieur - Mr./Mister/sir  
> Chut, petit ange. - Hush, little angel.  
> Non? - No?  
> Excusez-moi? - Pardon me?  
> Tais-toi! - Shut up!


	22. Justification (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any excuse is a good excuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘You're not wearing that out. I will rip it off you.’ ‘Promise?’
> 
> Can be read as a continuation from the previous one. George is a Possessive Dom™, Lafayette is a Submissive Tease™ … my favorite tropes

_Damn you, Steuben,_ George Washington thinks to himself, frown deepening as he continues fiddling with his bowtie in the mirror─frustrated that his fingers, in his nervousness, have forgotten the simple steps to fixing the tie himself. Though, in all fairness, he’s got good reason for the nerves that pulse through every muscle in his body.

Friedrich Steuben was many things in George’s life─a best friend in childhood, a confidant in their rowdy fraternity years, a trusted companion in their political careers, had even been a lover once upon a time… though neither of them liked to talk much about that. One thing he had never been, however, was _discreet_. Where George preferred for his private life to be just that─private, clandestine, _only for him_ ─Friedrich had always been more… _open_ about who he took to bed. Far too open, in Washington’s opinions. He didn’t let anything keep him in the closet─not his homophobic parents, his disapproving frat brothers, his opposition in politics. To be admirable, but rather unfortunate for his friend in most situations.

Honestly, George shouldn’t have been surprised when his friend sent him one vague, fear-striking text message─' _Bring that kid you’ve been dating ‘round to mine. My new squeeze is getting lonely. This isn’t a request, George─I’ve already made the date with them’_

See, Washington had started dating this young twenty-one-year-old college student a bit by accident─it was a _long_ story─and considering he was old enough to be the kids’ dad, he wasn’t exactly going around telling everyone about his new relationship… no matter how much of a future he saw with them. He’d _confided_ in Steuben─who he knew had an affinity for messing with boys far younger than him─after a fight with his partner, asking for help. Freddie dated a lot of young guys, he knew what do with that sort… _right_?

George should’ve known Friedrich would twist it into something _perverted_. His lovely, annoying best-friend had assumed this meant George was into the whole ‘sugar daddy’ thing _he_ was into… and had been trying to set up double-dates for _weeks_. There had always been conveniently timed excuses─ _Lafayette is sick, There’s been an emergency polls, I’m going on a trip, they’re visiting family in France_ ─but of course, that didn’t deter his best friend.

No, that just made Freddie get _creative_. He still doesn’t know how that old perv got his partner’s number─should probably be more worried about that.

But for right now, he needed to fix this fucking bowtie.

You see, the real Washington was nervous because he wasn’t _exactly_ out to the public yet. His sister Martha knew, and of course all of his partner’s friends. But other than them, it was just Freddie. It wasn’t that he was scared to come out of the closet, it was that he just never felt that there was a right time to tell someone those personal details. _Hi, I’m George Washington, I’m bisexual and I’ve got a genderqueer datemate that wears dresses. Nice to meet you._ Besides, he tried not to mix his business with pleasure─there was no reason the public or any of the politicians he worked with should have any knowledge about what or who he did in his bedroom.

Of course, with Freddie, pleasure was business and business was pleasure.

This is why George is nervous. There’s a million fears running through his head at the moment, and all of them are the worst case scenarios. _What if someone from work saw him out? What if someone from the paparazzi caught photos? What if Lafayette got the wrong idea about their relationship? What if_ Friedrich _got the wrong idea about their relationship? What if he lost his footing in the polls?_

“Honey,” a voice says, and all those thoughts disappear for a moment. George immediately relaxes when Lafayette’s hands wrap around his midsection. He glances back into the mirror─this time to take in his lovers’ appearance. What Laf wears is obscured from sight, but judging by the smoky eyes and glossed lips, its something simple. That calms him a little, and he leans into Gilbert’s hold. “That’s right, relax. Its just a date.”

“A fancy date with my perverted associate,” George corrects bitterly, returning to his task─his frustration deepening the crease in his brows until he throws his hands up in defeat. Lafayette gives a gentle laugh as their fingers snake up his chest to take the fabric into their hands. Washington watches as perfectly manicured hands go through the looping mechanics until they’re pulling the edges of bow into a tight knot and wonders how the _hell_ they did that backwards. “Thank you, m’love.”

He turns then, expecting his lover to be wearing a nice blouse or a cocktail dress. Sometimes Laf felt more masculine than feminine, and George would be treated to the sight of a well-tailored suit. However, what he’s presented with is vastly different from _all_ of those things─and somehow both mouthwatering _and_ drying.

The dress they sport is short and tight, leaving very little to any imaginative mind. A striking black and of thin satin material, it looks more like lingerie than evening attire at first eye. The dark fabric paired with their glowing caramel coloured skin made for quite the sight,  They’d chosen a pair of black stilettos that George had bought them a few months back─heels they knew he enjoyed fucking them in.

 **“You’re not wearing that out,”** George states simply, tearing his eyes away from the long smooth legs that disappeared beneath the ebony fabric to give himself a once-over. His voice is far steadier than he expects it to be─especially considering that a whole new slew of bad situations are forming in his head. _Great_. Now not only is he nervous, but he’s horny _and_ nervous. This won’t work. **“I’ll rip it off you.”**

 **“Promise?”** Lafayette asks teasingly before shrugging, a flirty lilt in their voice and a suggestive expression on their face. They move away from him─turning on their heel to grab a clutch from the closet. “C’mon, Georgie. I _love_ this dress.”

They’re doing this intentionally then. Washington can’t decide if that makes things worse… or, in the long run, exciting.

“Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, go change,” George demands, his eyes lifting to theirs and tone becoming serious. He doesn’t know if its exactly fair to use his dominate nature to his advantage at this point, but it also isn’t fair for them to be looking that damn _good_ . Even if he _did_ think he could control himself with his love looking that… provocative─which he really, really didn’t─he didn’t trust Steuben one bit. Or at least, not around his Lafayette. What that man wanted, he made sure that he _got_. If Lafayette piqued his interest enough? Well, George isn’t sure their friendship would survive that.

“Use my full name if you wish, _époux_ , I’m not taking this dress off.”

So be it.

“I believe,” Washington’s voice is low now, and rises to his feet to close the distance between them. He’s significantly taller and stronger than Lafayette, and once he draws himself up to full height, he can be quite intimidating. He’d used the tactic against cocky interns and snobby business partners to bring them down a peg─and he’s delighted to find it has a similar effect on Lafayette. “I asked you to do something.”

Lafayette swallows thickly─George watches their adams apple bob, bites back the urge to lean down and suck hickeys onto their throat. Their hands find the lapels of his suit jacket, gripping the cloth so hard their knuckles begin to pale. He can see in their eyes they’re calculating what to do─what their next move should be, how they might just get their way.

“You did,” they mutter, lips forming a sexy pout. They peer up at him through long eyelashes, feign innocence. “but George, you said you’d rip the dress off of me. I thought you were one to keep a promise.”

Briefly, George wonders if Fred will accept _this_ as another excuse not to go on a date. After all, the man always complained that George didn’t give any details, that he was too uptight and boring. Maybe hearing all about just exactly why they’d stood him and his boytoy up would get him off his back.

 _Sure, George,_ a mischievous voice in his head says as he slides the dark fabric over his lovers hips. _Whatever excuse works._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> époux ─ husband


	23. The Lunchroom Dilemma (John/Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had found himself in a bit of a pickle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘I wish you could block people in real life.’ ‘Restraining order?’ ‘No, murder.’
> 
> problematic Thaurens is the best Thaurens

**“I wish you could block people in real life,”** John Laurens complains, dumping his lunch tray at the usual table he and his friends sat at—doing so with a dramatic groan and slamming down of his backpack when he doesn’t get the desired response from the group. All five of his friends look up in curiosity at him—well, actually, four friends look up and one makes a grunt of acknowledgement. _Of course, Alex is studying through lunch again._

 **“Restraining order?”** Peggy suggests around a mouthful of hamburger, only swallowing her food to speak properly after she’s gently chastised by her sister. Hercules looks over to her now, a striking look of realization and surprise on his face—as if he’s suddenly just realized that restraining orders are, indeed, real-life blocks.

 **“No, murder,”** Alexander deadpans, apparently paying attention now. John winces when he notes the deep bags under the young teenagers eyes, stops himself from asking if he’s slept at all recently. Angelica did enough of that for everyone. “John, you’re talking about your project with Jefferson, right?”

“Yes! Y’know, it’s so fuckin’ unfair. I’m being personally targeted and _attacked_. You know Morris only paired me with that asshole ‘cause I told him his views on women were outdated, sexist and oppressive.” John huffs again, taking a stab at the cold vegetable mix—though, last thing he felt like doing was eating. He of course, was talking about the final project he’d been assigned to in his US History class. Their history teacher had paired his students together to do a project on the different eras they’d covered throughout the years—as both a final exam, and a key grade needed to pass the class. Of course, Morris—ever the massivest douche in the school—had assigned him to work with Thomas Jefferson.

Pretentious ass, rich ass, privileged ass, _cute_ ass Thomas Jefferson. John—and most of their friends circle, aside for Lafayette—had disliked the kid ever since middle school. It was no secret that the pampered little rich boy thought he was above everyone else around him—looked down on the fact that he was sent to public school, to be around the _middle class plebeians_. With his father making a monopoly out of the agricultural equipment industry and his mother being some world-renowned classic artist, he felt as though he should be treated like American royalty. And he was. From the second he stood in front of the entire Kindergarten class and recited the entire French alphabet, he’d made sure teachers, administration and students alike tripped over themselves to kiss his spoiled rich ass.

He could do no wrong. He was so smart, and so rich, and so charming. Everyone stood up to talk to him… everyone _loved_ him.

Including John. It wasn’t like he had _intended_ to develop a crush on the other boy. He had been perfectly fine staying out of the ‘rich kid social circle’—in fact, he’d despised them so much. In middle school all they’d done was walk all over students like him—poor students, with single mothers that couldn’t buy them a fucking Porsche. For all John was concerned, the pretentious snobs and trust fund babies could have their silver spoons and golden pacifiers—he was more than happy avoiding them and any of their ‘friends’ like the Bubonic Plague. But ever since high school began, things had gotten significantly more difficult. Alex had begun to participate in school politics, Eliza had joined the school orchestra, Peggy did yearbook and Hercules was in sports—more specifically, football and basketball. All of these things were so inconveniently things that Thomas also did. It was almost impossible to avoid him these days. If he wasn’t on the morning announcements with the rest of the Student Council, he was busy running around taking pictures and quotes with Peggy, holding orchestra practice with Eliza or at basketball games with Hercules. It just so happened that John had been forced to hold some friendly conversation with the asshole in the process.

And he’d discovered that Thomas was funny… and charming, and cute, and actually kind of sweet when he wasn’t too busy upholding his reputation of being a rich snob. He liked him. He wasn’t so bad of a guy.

“John, you’re blushing, m’love,” Lafayette teases, reaching across the table to poke him in the cheek. John swats at their hand, but the attempt at malice is half-hearted at best. “Why are you complaining? I thought you _liked_ him!”

“He does,” Eliza says, and she’s got a teasing grin on her face, too. He groans, this time louder and more pointedly. “he just says he doesn’t so he doesn’t hurt Alex’s feelings.”

“That’s not true!” Alex exclaims indignantly, though the exclamation is more of a bratty whine. “Who cares if John dates literal scum of the earth, shit stain on the bottom of my shoe, pretentious little perfect asshole Thomas Jefferson? Who cares? Not me! I don’t care, I don’t give a shit at all. If he wants to settle for losers, he can be my fucking guest.”

John gives a withering sigh, looks at his best friend sadly. Therein lies another problem with his ‘crush’ that he knew would get in the way of it ever becoming more than that. He and Alexander had been best friends since Elementary School—since Alex had purposefully skinned his knee when he saw John crying about his own injury—and they were practically inseparable. They’d grown up together doing everything, supporting each other through every hurdle. Every time Alex got stuck with a new foster family, John would be there with some new art to make his new house feel like home. When John’s father beat and left him and his Mom, Alex had ran all the way across town to comfort him. They’d even came out their eighth grade year together—Alex as bisexual, John as gay—by spray painting a pride flag on the side of the middle school.

The point was, the two were practically like brothers—even closer, if that was possible. And though he genuinely liked Thomas, he wouldn’t lose his Alexander over him.

“Alex, don’t be so rude, man,” Hercules says, spotting the anguish on his best friends face. Alex gives a grunt of annoyance—already back to studying. “Hey, John didn’t complain when you had that threesome with James Reynolds and Maria Lewis—and he fuckin’ hates James Reynolds.”

“Who doesn’t?” Peggy snorts. “I wish Maria would dump him. She’s so chill. And she’d be so hot with Hercules.”

“Jesus, Pegs, stop trying to set me up! I’m not lonely!”

“Are, too!”

As the table descends into chaos—at some point, John has to dodge a ketchup covered french fry—the young boy takes to staring across the cafeteria. Of course, sitting at the largest table in the room, Thomas was surrounded by his daily admirers. His best friends James and Aaron sat on either side of him, but he was paying neither of them any mind—too busy putting in overtime flirting with some senior chick that _obviously_ buying into his schtick. John almost gives a pathetic groan of embarrassment when his first thought is possessive, and he actually does slam his head down onto the table.

Ever the comfort, Eliza puts her hand on his back and rubs soothing circles into it. “Hey, its okay, John! Angelica didn’t want me to date Alex, but we’ve been going strong for a year now! Things’ll work out.”

“Yeah, thanks Eliza. You always know what to say,” he mutters, giving her a smile—even if her words didn’t do much to cheer him up, he did appreciate the effort. After all, Eliza was just trying to help. Seemingly satisfied that she’d done good, she smiles and flashes him an optimistic thumbs up.

“Wait, Angelica, _what_?!” Alex exclaims in indignant shock, causing Peggy to lean over onto her sister in cacophonous laughter. “She seriously didn’t like me? Why, that lying _bi_ —”

“Hold that thought, _mon amie_ , I believe John’s chance is walking right our way!” Lafayette’s voice squeals excitedly, interrupting one of Alex’s potential rants. John looks up again in confusion to see what they’re talking about, and his stomach lurches down to his toes when he does. Just as his best friend had said, Thomas and his little duo of cronies are making their way across the cafeteria. The senior girl is nowhere in sight, but John’s relief at that is greatly short-lived.

“Oh boy,” Hercules sighs, leaning back in his chair. John knew what he was thinking, as the thought ran on loop through his mind as well. _This won’t end good._

After sauntering up to their table with his ever-present air of self-importance, Thomas makes a point of pushing Lafayette and Hercules’ stuff to the floor in order to make room for his friends. Lafayette gives an indignant squeak at the sight of their Prada bag landing on the ketchup-french-fry from earlier, but John is more annoyed at the fact that Thomas was actually choosing to sit for conversation. _What are you_ doing _, Jefferson?_

His friend, James, is significantly nicer than he is. He gives a quiet ‘hello’ to everyone as he perches nervously on the edge of the table. Of course, Aaron says nothing—choosing instead to act as though whatever on his phone is more important.

Typical. He hadn't talked to them since he'd broken up with Eliza in favor of the far more sophisticated Theodosia Bartow a year and a half earlier. Though popular and rich like her, Eliza had hung with the wrong crowd and he’d decided that she would offer no future advantage to him. There had been no complaints about his silence against the group, either—they didn't want to talk to him if that's how he thought anyways.

“Hello, everybody. John,” Thomas greets jovially with a nod towards his project partner, as though his sworn enemy wasn’t furiously scribbling in his notebook beside John. Eliza gives a nervous glance between the two—there had been some near miss fights before, and she was trying desperately to keep Alex from acquiring another suspension—but otherwise, is very polite to Jefferson. The two of them, as well as Lafayette, make a sort of small talk—about classes, gossip, the upcoming summer and finals—before Alex finally slams his hand against the lunchroom table in frustration.

“What the fuck does your slimy ass want, Jefferson?” he snaps, at the same time the pencil in his grip does. His voice is loud, and filled with both annoyance and anger.

Much to Johns dismay, this draws the attention of nearby students—all of whom knew about the explosive rivalry the two had, all of whom had been anxiously waiting for that rivalry to come to an equally explosive head. His eyes dart around the cafeteria as various students pull out their phones to record the exchange. He either needed to get Alex out of here, or Thomas.

“Hun,” Eliza chastises quietly, thinking much quicker than he had. She moves from her spot across from Hamilton to crouch beside him—a small hand gripping his bicep in order to stop him from doing something stupid.

“No, Eliza, it’s fine. Hamilton, such a fragile temper you have—I expect more of a level head from you. I haven’t come over here to rub in your face how rapidly you’re falling behind in the StuCo polls… though, I wouldn’t be opposed to that topic,” he grins wider—that sexy, lopsided, cocky assholish grin that makes John’s heart flutter and his dick harden. _Fuck my life_. Luckily, his grin and attentions turns from Alex to John. _Or, would that be unluckily?_ “I came to talk to my project partner. Hello, John, how are you?”

“Good, thanks for asking,” he says, trying to turn the smile that had begun to form into a scowl and keep his voice from sounding too pleasant. He couldn’t betray Alex like this. Even if he did kind of want to kiss that _fucking_ grin off this assholes face. No, this guy had bullied his Alex for a couple of years now—he couldn’t take his side. Clearing his throat, he adds, “Can you fuck off now, Jeffs? ‘Cause if he tries to choke the shit outta you, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold him back.”

“Why of course,” Thomas says—and much to Johns surprise, the boy reaches over to give him a handshake. Large, brown hands encompass his in a firm shake, and John distantly wonders what the hell kind of rich people lotion made hands that _soft_. “I suppose I’ll see you in class, then. Good day, everyone.”

With this, Thomas and his clique rise from their table to leave and Alex is free to go on another loud, angry rant about how _Thomas Jefferson could’ve only possibly come from the nutsack of Hitler himself._ Peggy and Hercules laugh good naturedly at his obscene objection to the kids existence, and Eliza tries her best to diffuse the ticking time bomb that was his impulsive temper.

It isn’t until the lunch bell rings, and Lafayette is giving him shooting, suggestive looks, that he realizes Thomas has slipped a square of paper with his number into his hand.


	24. Shelter (Hercules/Maria)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hercules offers a bit of shelter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'I need a place to stay.’
> 
> I think,,, this might be a new OTP???

Hercules always loved dark Friday nights spent at home—especially the rainy ones. The apartment was usually abandoned on the weekends, as his roommates went to spend time with their significant others if no one had made any drinking plans. He mostly used the free quiet time—without the arguing of Alex and Lafayette over the rules of monopoly, or the loud rock music that usually blasted from John’s room—to clean up around the house a little, or start a new knitting project, or even just catch up on some studying or sleeping. It helped that he knew no one would be back home until at least Sunday night, so he was able to plan what he’d do for the weekend without any interruptions. The only person he had to worry after was their orange tabby cat Mellow—and even then, the animal was independent enough that Hercules didn’t need to do much for him. Thus, Hercules usually spent his weekends watching crime documentaries and murder mysteries with Mellow on the couch—a hot cup of tea on the coffee table, whatever knitting project in his lap.

All of this is why he startles when, in the midst of documentary on the Manson family, there’s four very sharp and rapid knocks on the door. Mellow immediately rises from where he’d been laying over Hercules’ feet, giving a disgruntled meow at being awakened and stalking off towards the kitchen for food. Sighing, Hercules leans forward to pause the documentary before rising to answer the door. It was probably Alex—he hadn’t gotten around to getting a new key made after he lost his some months back—who had forgotten one obscure item or another. Hercules unlocks and opens the door with gusto, opening his mouth to tease his friend about his forgetful nature when he’s stopped short.

Its not Alexander Hamilton standing at the front door, but rather Maria Lewis.

“Uh, can I help you?” he asks, shocked that this girl of all girls was on his doorstep. He didn’t have a lot of knowledge about her—had only really interacted with her on three occasions. The first time he’d met Maria was when she’d been bartending at the old dive bar where he and the rest of the crew had met—wearing a sultry red corset and flirting with most of the male patrons in the bar for extra tips. The second had been in his Fashion Theory and Culture class, where she had been one of his fellow classmates and a knowledgeable seamstress. She’d sat next to him in class, and they’d worked together on homework sometimes, but that was the furthest their conversations had gone. The third and last had been when she’d appeared at their doorstep a little over a year earlier with a black eye and a  desperate plea for help. Hercules had known she and Hamilton slept around with each other for a couple of months after that, but the fling had stopped when he got back together with his ex-girlfriend. Ever since then, Maria had been nothing but a faint memory at the back of his head.

 **“I need a place to stay,”** she says simply, voice deadpan and eyes tired. Hercules doesn’t know what to do—what even to say to her. Here she was, the girl that had almost ruined Alex’s chances with the love of his life—sporting a brand new black eye, wearing nothing but a wet pair of slippers and a flimsy nightgown, and looking more desperate than she had the last time.

Hercules falters, opening and closing his mouth as he flounders like a fish out of water. He truly doesn’t know what his next course of action should be. This was his best friends ex-fuck buddy, a girl around their university with quite a reputation for getting around. She hung out with a dangerous crowd, did even more dangerous things—it was no secret who Maria Lewis was. He didn’t want to get the wrong idea and he sure didn’t want _her_ to get the wrong idea. The last time he knew of someone helping her, a love triangle had developed and a lot of drama had ensued. In short, Maria had been a bit of a bad omen for the group and Hercules didn’t really want anything to do with her if all that drama was to continue.

“Look, I called Alexander before I came,” she says, when she notices that he’s mulling it over a bit too hard. “He said it was okay for me to come here, to just stay in his room until he came back Sunday. Eliza gave her blessing, too. I just need to crash here for a bit, until I can figure some shit out. Now can I _please_ come in? I’m freezing.”

Of course this was Alex’s doing. He hadn’t even bothered to stop and ask himself why she’d chosen to come to _their_ apartment in the first place—the question hadn’t even crossed his mind. Obviously, if she was here, she’d had the decency to ask first—he’d remembered her as a relatively nice girl, despite her obvious shortcomings. He immediately feels guilty for assuming the worst of someone in such a situation—his mother and sisters had taught him better, _especially_ when confronted with a woman in need of his help.

“Oh, sure… sorry. Come in,” Hercules adds the sorry sheepishly, stepping aside so that Maria can slip past him into the cozy apartment. She immediately crosses over to the couch, sitting next to where he’d been previously and pulling his blanket around her shoulders—he lets her have it, not making a peep of complaint. After making doubly sure to lock the door behind him—if she had a black eye, that could be a sign of some serious problems and he didn’t want to take any risks of intruders—he joins her on the couch and presses play on the documentary. Together, the two sit in relative silence—interrupted only by the soft sound of the documentary narrator, the clicking of Hercules’ knitting needles and the purring coming from Mellow, who’d made himself comfortable in Maria’s lap.

He doesn’t ask questions, despite the many running through his mind. Though he does want answers as to why she has a black eye and why she’s wearing nothing but a negligee in almost freezing weather, he figures that she’ll tell him these things when she’s ready. If not, Alex would tell him once he got the full story. That boy couldn’t hold water in a water.

Eventually Maria speaks up to break the silence, and this time there’s a tinge of amusement in her voice. “You know, you never seemed like the knitting type.”

Hercules looks up from his project—a sunny yellow baby blanket, made for his new little brother that his mother had recently adopted—and gives a light shrug. He had gotten that a lot before—from his roommates when he’d first met them, from his roommates dates, from his teammates or just various people that had caught him practicing the hobby. He knew what they meant by it—he was 6’4, 260 pounds, a football player with big muscles and black… there was already a pre-established stereotype in their heads about what his hobbies might be. But it wasn’t like he could control how much he liked to knit. He’d grown up with only sisters—he was only adopted because his father got tired of having nothing but little girls running around the house—and with him being the only boy out of ten kids, it wasn’t very often he got to pick family hobbies or activities. To add to this, his parents had treated them all equally—had taught the girls how to fix a flat and change their own oil, had taught him how to cook and clean and sew. His parents had grown up in liberal 50s and 60s, and they refused to cater to gender norms.

Hercules supposes it makes him one of the lucky ones—having come from such a big, open-minded, loving family—, but it was quickly growing annoying having his masculinity challenged because he’d taken up an interest in traditionally feminine things.

“I’ve got nine sisters,” he explains with a shrug, looping the yarn in the familiar way that he knew how. The blanket was coming along nicely—he figured he’d only spend another day on it before sending it to his mom. “My mom and dad weren’t too keen on enforcing ‘boy’ things and ‘girl’ things like their parents had—my mom actually became a mechanic just to spite her father. So when I said I wanted to be a fashion designer when I was twelve, my Mom taught me everything she knew about making clothes. Knitting, sewing, designing, sketching. I happened to be a natural at knitting.”

“Nine sisters,” Maria says with a low, impressed whistle. “That explains a lot. You’re a pretty chill guy.”

“I guess,” Herc shrugs, not knowing what to do with the compliment—nor what its supposed to mean. Maria thought he was chill because he had sisters—and whether or not that was a good or bad thing, he wasn’t so sure. However, judging by the way she looks at him, its meant to be an offhand compliment. “What about you? Got any siblings?”

“Three brothers. I’m the oldest, and the only girl,” she says. “My parents weren’t really in my life—every time my Mom had a new baby, she’d drop it off on my grandmothers doorstep for her to raise. We had our grandma growing up, but our grandpop died when I was nine years old. I guess those unaddressed daddy issues are why I keep winding up with the worst sorts of men.”

“The worst sorts?”

“James,” she says bitterly, gesturing to her eye. Hercules winces. He’d almost managed to forget about that. Almost. “The one that keeps giving me these shiners. I keep telling myself I’ll leave him but I’m just too _stupid…_ ”

Maria trails off, bringing her knees up to her chest as a self-comfort. Offended that the endless petting had apparently ended, Mellow mews in disapproval before hopping onto the back of the couch—tail flicking every now and then as he tries to return to his napping. Maria doesn’t speak for a long while—just stares blankly at the television where actors were reenacting the Tate murders, hugging her knees close to her chest. Hercules watches her for a few minutes before setting aside his brother’s blanket and scooting closer to her.

“Hey, hey, look,” he says, at first offering a hesitant hand to her. At first she flinches and snatches her hand away, but after a bit of reconsideration, she returns it to his grasp. He laces his fingers with hers and gives her hand a gentle squeeze—and it seems to serve as at least a bit of comfort, as she does turn her head to look at him with water-rimmed eyes. “Its not your fault, okay? My Mom was DV victim before she met my Dad—I know there’s a cycle, I know it’s hard to get away. You shouldn’t blame yourself so much—you’re not stupid. You’re _trapped_.”

“Trapped, huh? Obviously not. I go to school, I go to work, I go out with friends. I’m not trapped. I’m just _weak_.”

“Maria, don’t say that. Strong people can become victims, too. Anyone can. And even if you _were_ weak—which you’re most definitely not—that still doesn’t give him a right to lay his hands on you. You just… you need help. And that’s okay, it’s _okay_ to need a little help. Look, if Alex and Eliza are cool with you, then _I’m_ cool with you. And if I’m cool with you, then I’m gonna help you get away from him, alright?” he offers.

He knows that's a bold statement to make—his father had once told him all of the chaos that had ensued as he’d tried to get his mother out of her situation, had told him that such a choice to help someone in this kind of situation should not be taken lightly. And Hercules _knows_ that he doesn’t know this girl very well, and what he did know of her was mostly negative, but something about her tugs on his heartstrings.

Something about that constant sad, alone look in her eyes just reminded him of his Mom. Reminded him of the few times that _he’d_ been the one that had held her through her PTSD flashbacks as she cried. He just felt he needed to help her. He _wanted_ to help her.

“You don’t even _know_ me,” she points out, almost as though reading his mind. “You don’t know what you’d be getting yourself into.”

“Sure. You may be right. But if you don't want to go back, you don’t have to. You can crash here, like Alex said. If James knows where you work, we can find you a new job. Find you a place. Get you a different campus schedule,” Hercules rattles off solutions that he knows of, trying to remember from the classes he took and stories his parents told them. “There are plenty of ways to avoid your abuser if you’ve got the right support system, y’know.”

“Why?” Maria asks, suddenly pulling away from him. There’s a look of suspicion developing in her brown eyes, and a brief flash of fear. Hercules pulls away immediately, letting go of her hand and hastening away from her back to his end of the couch. “Why would you want to do that? Is it ‘cause you want to fuck me? ‘Cause I’m not gonna get myself involved with another Alex. If you want something in return you can just fuck right off.”

“No!” he almost shouts, shaking his head vehemently. It sickens him to his stomach that she would even think that way. He wouldn’t do that—and he wonders if Alex had done that. Offered his help but only in exchange for sex. “No. I promise, I’m just… just being a good samaritan, s’all. Listen, if you want me to leave you alone, I will. I won’t talk about it anymore. But think about it. You can’t live like that.”

She responds with nothing, so Hercules picks up his blanket and goes back to knitting—a feeling of dread weighing down his stomach. He should’ve never mentioned anything to her—after all, this was _Alexander’s_ friend, not his. He probably seemed like some prying creep now. Or some try-hard ‘nice guy’ who was really far from anything nice. He should’ve just—

“Hey, Mulligan,” Maria says, and it draws his attention away from his thoughts again. He tilts his head at her. “I don’t wanna live like this. You’re right. But can we start with getting me something dry to wear? I think I’ve soaked your blanket.”

Hercules actually smiles for the first time that night, rising from the couch. “Sure. I think Laf has some nightgowns that might fit you.”


	25. Nyctophobia (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment alone in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Are you... are you afraid of the dark?'
> 
> mmm mORE WASHETTE H*CK YES

George Washington had, over the years, gotten used to the coastal storms that usually rocked New York City in the springtime months. It had taken a bit of adjustment—he was used to the blistering heat paired with the few and far between rain of Virginia—but eventually, they’d just become another fact of his life. Most of the time the storms were a little less than harmless—some heavy rain, loud thunder and bright flashes of lightning, and then everything was back to business as usual. He usually spent those days and nights—where it travelling to work or school was advised against unless for absolute emergencies—buried away in his office, getting ahead on paperwork or rearranging his schedules for when the storm finally did let up. Though violent and imposing, the storms weren’t particularly worrying in any way. The worst thing they sometimes caused was an hour or two of power outage, but he could handle a little dark.

Of course, George hadn’t quite yet begun to add Lafayette into his plans for those scenarios. They’d been dating a year, but there hadn’t been too awful a storm in that timeframe for him to wonder how Lafayette would react. The few moments he had spent curiously wondering, he’d figured that Lafayette was an adult—if there were to be a big storm or a power outage, it certainly wouldn’t have been their first one. It’s not as though they’re a child he has to look after, they’ll know where to find the candles and flashlights and what to do.

Well, the old saying did go something along the lines of ‘never assume, it makes an ass out of u and me’, didn’t it?

George is busy at his desk, writing down his arguments for his case that would occur the following Tuesday, when the power suddenly goes out. Annoyed that he can’t finish his arguments but grateful for a small break, he reaches into his desk drawer to grab a flashlight before rising from his chair—deciding to make a sandwich and look for the candles while he waits for the outage to be over. He’s only just made it into the hallway when he hears Lafayette’s small shriek coming from the living room, and fearing that something beside the storm might have caused this outage, he takes the stairs two at a time.

“Lafayette? Laf, are you okay?” he calls when he reaches the landing, flashlight lighting his path through the short hallway to the living room. He spots the dark outline of his lovers small frame curled up into a ball on the couch, blanket thrown over their head and small whimpers emanating from them. Still worried, but a bit less so, George reaches over the back of the couch to pull their blanket away. When they spot him, they stare at him with pure _terror_ in their hazel eyes. “What’s wrong, m’love? What happened?”

Nervously, the younger of the two shakes their head and pulls their knees to their chest—hugging them close to themselves and rocking a bit. It takes several long minutes of silence for the realization to dawn on him, and when it does, George almost feels like _laughing_ at the absurdity of it all. He would, if Lafayette didn’t look so truly petrified out of their mind.

 **“Are you… are you afraid of the dark?”** he asks hesitantly, moving around to the other side of the couch so he can sit down with them. Immediately Lafayette scoots into his waiting embrace, resting their head on his chest and wrapping their arms around his midsection—squeezing tightly, as though George might disappear any moment. They nod in response. “Oh, m’love. There’s nothing here to be afraid of. I’m right here with you, nothing is going to hurt you.”

“Of course, _rationally_ , I know that,” Laf whines, already feeling like a stupid child. George attempts to assuage them by removing their hair from their ponytail and running his fingers through it—detangling it gently with his hand, attempting to prevent them from spiraling into some sort of panic attack. The trick works, as they give a content sigh before calming down and continuing their sentence with, “but fear is irrational.”

“Bad news, then, m’love. Power might be out for awhile—at least an hour. It takes awhile for the problem to be fixed,” he sighs, to a melody of annoyed and impatient groans. George chuckles at them—how cute it was that they were scared of something so trivial. “Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” they eventually sigh, seemingly defeated. The two of them were gonna be there awhile, so they might as well get comfortable. “I guess I should just probably learn to get over my fears. I can’t even believe I’m still afraid of the dark.”

“Why?” George asks eventually, eyes flitting down just as theirs look up at him. Admittedly, he feels like an ass for asking the question—he hopes it doesn’t make him sound terribly judgmental. He’s just curious as to why a twenty-four-year-old adult was _still_ scared of the dark, especially when they were so unafraid of mostly everything else. “If you don’t mind me asking, where’d this phobia come from?”

“When I was little, _ma mère_ would lock me in a dark closet during storms. She knew I was afraid of them, and she was just trying to help, but all she did was make me afraid of the dark instead,” he explains. Voice evening out from the trembling whine into something more confident. “I never got over it. I can sleep in the dark ‘cause you’re there, y’know? You make me feel safe. But power outages freak me the fuck out.”

George’s heart swells at the sentence. _I make them feel safe,_ he thinks giddily in his head as he pulls them closer. For some reason, that makes this childish fear of the dark seem all the more worth putting up with. If he had to spend every dark moment with his arms wrapped around them in protection, he would—just so that he could make them feel safe, just so that he could make them happy. George knew then that if he hadn’t been absolutely gone for them before, he was now.

“I used to be scared of the dark, too,” he admits after a lapse of silence, hoping it’ll help them feel less childish about their fear. If anything, it at least does pique their interest—and they look at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish. “Of course, I got over it long ago. But it took awhile for me, too. My brother Lawrence used to read me scary stories and then turn off my lights and leave me there—in the dark, alone with my overactive imagination. I didn’t get over it until high school. If any of that makes you feel better.”

Smiling now, Lafayette’s muscles relax and the tension slowly evaporates. They seem to feel a little less guilty about their phobia, and George is just happy to make them feel better. “Yeah, actually. It does. Tall, dark, mysterious George Washington was afraid of the dark. I didn’t even believe you had any fears.”

 _I’ve got one,_ he wants to respond. _Losing you._

Instead, he gives a half-hearted shrug. “Everyone is afraid of something. Even tall, dark, mysterious George Washington.”

There’s more silence as they sit there—listening to the storm rolling outside and the sounds of each other’s breathing. Its peaceful, and he almost dozes off before he remembers what he’d been coming downstairs for in the first place.

“Do you want me to go light some candles?”

Lafayette thinks about the question for a moment before looking up and planting a kiss on his cheek. “ _Non, merci._ Just stay here with me? Please?”

“Of course. I love you, Lafayette.”

“ _Je t'aime plus,_ George.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ma mère - my mother/my mom  
> Non, merci - No, thank you.  
> Je t'aime, plus - I love you, more.


	26. Get In (John/Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In summary, high school math teachers are shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘Need a ride?’
> 
> yall thaurens is so cute tbh what are we missing out on here

John Laurens exits Kings High School with annoyance written clearly on his face and his backpack heavy with extra math homework. The wet wind howls wildly outside the safe haven of the school, trees bending in the direction of the stormy mess and lightning crackling overhead. He doesn't even bother stepping from under the canopy—it's obvious it's going to be pouring down rain soon. Of course, it would rain at 6 o'clock on an already terrible Monday, when he has to go pick his little sister up from the middle school. Internally, John curses his habit of running into terrible luck. If his stupid fucking Math teacher hadn't of held him back after class, if the man would have just waited until Friday when he knew Martha would ride home with her best friends for a sleepover, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. But no, apparently because he had come to the school in the middle of the school year, he desperately needed tutoring to even dare meet the level of curriculum that the other students were meeting. The douchebag probably had forgotten that he came from a Magnet school.  
  
The worst part is, he can't even call one of his best friends to come pick him up because his phone is dead—it had died while he was attempting to call Martha and let her know that she would have to call their father to pick her up. At least he'd been able to talk to his sister before his phone died, so hopefully Martha was home—safe from the storm.  
  
That still didn't explain how _he_ would get home.  
  
Ready to give up and storm back inside to ask to use the phone—which he would have to give his ID number for, and explain why he needed to use a school phone after school hours, and _blah blah blah_ —John turns on his heel with frustration written all over his face. But the sound of a car horn honking twitches his curiosity. Like every other human being, when a car honks, he has to look. John turns and looks over his shoulder for another student waiting to be picked up by an expectant parent or older sibling.  
  
Parked haphazardly in the parking lot—he can hear his father's voice complaining about poor drivers that take up two spaces, because this car takes four—is a boy. Man, actually—with unruly dark curls and flirtatious brown eyes, sitting in the driver's seat of an expensive looking black pick-up truck. From appearances, he looks to be a college kid—maybe one of the students that attend King’s college program in the mountains. His wrist is draped over the steering wheel lazily, and his chair is leaned so far back he can't possibly be able to see the streets. He would look like a normal college kid, if it weren't for his very wet hair and car interior—as if he'd driven his car with the windows rolled down.  
  
The boy honks again and smiles at him, popping his gum in his mouth. John cringes.

 **"Need a ride?”** he offers, leaning over to open the passenger side door. Immediately, alarm bells are ringing in John' ears. Some random college kid is driving around, offering seventeen-year-old high school students rides in their shady looking pick-up truck. John may not have a lot of street smarts, but he _was_ far smarter than that. Not to mention his counselor gave him the standard 'don't talk to strangers' talk when he enrolled, as if he were a child.  
  
John is about to answer with a snippy 'no' when two heads poke into the front, both of the boys seeming confused as to why they were stopping. Two sets of chocolate brown eyes both look him up and down before turning towards the driver. He _knows_ those two students—James Madison and Aaron Burr, two of the most popular kids in the entire school. James was a campuswide name due to him being only a fifteen-year-old about to graduate, and Aaron was known for his ability to 'get around'. They both were Juniors—Aaron was on the varsity swimming team and James was the Engineering teams pride and joy. The point was, he sort of knew them, but he wondered why the Juniors were in the truck with this strange boy—who he still thought was pedophilic.  
  
"Thomas, let's go!" James whines, reaching over the steering wheel and honking his horn. The boy smacks his hand and glares at him.  
  
"Wait, he's trying to get laid," Aaron jokes. John flushes, hopes that his blush isn’t recognizable from where he stands.  
  
"No thanks," he answers, remembering the boys offer. "I was just going to call my mom."

John gestures lamely towards the school and makes to turn back around. Thomas chuckles and shakes his head, his wet mop of hair falling into his eyes. He opens his door, and hops out—to the sound of James' displeased groan—before running over to meet him under the canopy. Up close, John realizes his eyes aren't brown but the color of caramel—brown in essence, but speckled with different shades of green. They're actually extremely gorgeous.  
  
"Well, then, here's some advice," he says, whipping out what appears to be a brand new phone—he wonders how he can have the latest generation of Android and the latest year of car, figures he’s probably spoiled rich—and pulling up the weather forecast. "If you live in the Northeast, then there's no way she's coming out to get you—not if she doesn't want to crash into some bat shit crazy drivers—people like us. We just came from that way—streets are full on flooded, water came up to my calves. If she cares about her car, she'll wait until the rain lets up. Same for the East. West is the only place where it's not raining cats and dogs... yet. Look, I'm only offering you a ride because we're driving around and we saw you over here, looking like someone just ran over your puppy. And they're going to kick you off school ground at seven, then you'll be walking around here trying not to drown. Accept it or not—I'm trying to be nice."  
  
"How would you get me home if there's no way we're driving that way?" John asks, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes. This entire situation is sketchy, but he proves some valid points. Plus, he sort of knows James and Aaron—they all had AP Physics together—and even if he doesn't know 'Thomas', then he kind of knows them and so far, they've proven to be alright in his book.  
  
"We won't. You can hang out with us until my friend Adams texts us and tells it's let up over there—we were on our way to his place. We'll drop you off on the way," he offers, with a head tilt and lopsided grin. John sighs and looks around nervously. He didn't want to stick around until the rain let up—who knows when that will be—but he also didn't want to get in a car full of partial strangers.  
  
"I don't even know you," he voices, looking up from the gum spotted concrete of the entrance to his school. Thomas shrugs and his smile widens.  
  
"Well, I'm Thomas Jefferson—I graduated from here last year. That’s James Madison and Aaron Burr, but I'm sure you know them already. Anyone who goes to this crusty ass school knows those two. And curled in the back napping is Theodosia Bartow—you should know her, she's a remedial Junior." He did know Theodosia Bartow a bit—they had English III together. Theodosia was one of their smartest students, but she took remedial classes—said it was easier to just float through school than actually put in the work like in AP classes. She would sit with John and talk sometimes—when she wasn't focusing on whatever they were doing in class or tuning out into her own world. John would even call her a friend.  
  
"I still don't think I should get in a car with you guys. For all I know, you're a group of rapists," he says. Thomas laughs, his head tilting back and showing his Adam's apple. It takes a long few moments for him to realize he's serious. When he does, he rolls his eyes and shrugs again.  
  
"Suit yourself, sweetheart. Don't say we never did something for ya," he says, before stalking off back towards the car. John fidgets, watching as his one chance home walks away. He checks his cracked watch, seeing the time as six thirty. Thirty more minutes on campus before they kick him off, no matter the circumstances. Grumbling about going to a shitty school, John lurches forward and grabs Thomas' sleeve. He turns to look at her, a smug 'I-told-you-so' smile on his lips. John resists the urge to punch it off.  
  
" _Fine_. But I need to borrow your phone and call my mother first," he says. Thomas inputs his password and hands him his phone, where he quickly dials his mother's number. It takes a few rings, but then his little sister's voice fills the receiver. He breathes a sigh of relief—this meant Martha was with their mom, at home. Either way, his sister was out of the horrible weather.  
  
"Marty, I'm going to be with some friends. I'm going to call you, every hour on the hour until the rain let's up. If I don't call at seven thirty, call the cops, okay? And don't tell mom unless I don't call, alright?" John voice is hurried. He dares a glance at Thomas, who doesn't seem fazed at the instructions at all. Maybe he's not a rapist or a murderer or whatever the hell.  
  
"’Kay, Jack. Where are you going with your friends?" Marty asks childishly—John thanks his lucky stars for his sister being the obedient little girl that she is and not asking what friends he would be with or asking why he would have to call the cops.  
  
"Just to their house for pizza and soda. I'll bring you some back," he assures his little sister. Martha squeals in delight and the two siblings trade their goodbyes—John going over the instructions twice more before hanging up. As soon as he's deleted his mother's number from his call log, John hands Thomas his phone back. The taller of the two pockets the device and grins maniacally at him before rushing to the driver's seat. In the back seat, James and Aaron give loud ‘Finally!’s when he explains that they've got a new companion. John continues to stand outside the passenger door, the nervousness taking its grip on him. Thomas grins at him again and opens the door for him.  
  
"Get in bitch, we're going shopping!" he shouts in a high-pitched nasally voice, waving her in. Hopping in the truck, John wonders if he’s going to regret this.


	27. Calling In Sick (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George plays hooky because his lover is a terrible influence, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘Let's just stay in bed today.’
> 
> sexy washette fluff yes please + some sugar daddy!George & sugar baby!Laf vibes

On most Friday mornings, Lafayette woke before George did. George worked late into the night at his law firm or on his campaign trail quite often, sometimes not coming home until one or two in the morning. Lafayette, however, worked from home—so they were usually in bed long before their boyfriend was. As per usual, this morning was no different.

Stretching, Lafayette finds that the two of them are still curled up on the couch—their smaller figure resting against his, George’s arms wrapped around their waist and his groin pressing against their ass in a big spoon position. There’s a soft patchwork quilt thrown around the two of them, and the television is still playing the opening screen to the movie they’d been watching on the DVR. Lafayette vaguely recalls dozing off in the middle of _The Notebook_ , thinking that their relationship was even better than the one in the movie.

Most _weekend_ mornings were spent in this way—especially considering they almost always fell asleep together during movie night. There was something domestic and peaceful about waking up in their boyfriend's arms, with sunlight streaming in through the windows and absolute quiet blanketing the apartment. However, weekdays were usually interrupted by George's phone going off—calling him to whatever work emergency had occurred that morning.

Not yet ready for the serenity to end, Lafayette turns in George’s hold to bury their face into his chest. They inhale the soothing, familiar scent of his earthy cologne and smile warmly into the cloth of his pajama shirt. It takes a few minutes, but after they've fully shaken themselves from their groggy bliss, they smile coyly to themselves. Sometimes they doubted themselves; they doubted their relationship with him. George was a successful lawyer, an even more successful politician, a decorated war veteran. He was the epitome of an all-American dream man. Intelligent, romantic, funny, handsome, honest.

Gilbert was just some twenty-four-year-old gay French immigrant who still struggled with the English language.  There were plenty of reasons that the two of them were polar opposites—George was in his forties and Laf in his twenties, George dressed sharply in the clothes stereotypical for his gender and Lafayette wore makeup and dresses, George was seen as a Southern gentleman and Lafayette was seen as a French degenerate. All of these played on the younger of the two’s anxiety often, causing them to overthink and second guess their five year relationship.

But these stolen moments, where George held them so close the two of them could've melded together, Laf receives their desperately needed validation. Soaks up the attention and the love that unknowingly spills from their boyfriend like a thirsty man come to a spring. And they just can't help but feel like the luckiest person on Earth.

George slowly begins to stir beside them, and Lafayette briefly wonders if he's uncomfortable in their position. But he doesn’t do much to change anything but turn to his head to bury his nose in their hair and tuck his arm tighter around their waist. They would’ve let him sleep like that forever, if they could. He’s kind of cute—with his soft snoring and a small content smile on his lips.

However, their arm is dead and it was beginning to become uncomfortable. They shift their arm that isn’t trapped beneath his from the middle of their bodies, and they viciously shake it about to get some more blood flowing. It’s not how they _intended_ to wake him up, but George startles awake at the sudden movement with an angry grunt. There’s fear in his dark eyes and he desperately surveys the living room—trying to gather his surroundings and gauge any danger. Lafayette winces—all too familiar with the pains of soldier back from a war, as both their father and stepfather had been veterans—but once he realizes that he’s on his couch, the tortured expression on his face fades into something calmer before disappearing completely.

His mouth spreads into a small gentle smile when he lays his eyes on his lovers face, and his free hand comes up to coil a chestnut strand of hair around his finger. Lafayette leans into the touch, a smile on their own lips.

“Hey there gorgeous,” he purrs, pressing a gentle kiss against the corner of their mouth. Laf almost melts at how sexy their voice sounds when bogged down by the remnants of sleep.

“Good morning, _mon coeur,_ ” they respond, feeling simply euphoric in his arms. For a moment the two of them just stare at each other—their hazel eyes locked onto his deep ebony ones, enjoying just a brief moment of peace before the bubble is popped and their days begin. Immediately, Lafayette dreads even the thought—couldn't imagine the chill that would fill their bones when their George finally gave his morning stretch and got up to get ready for work.

Just as predicted, George eventually sits up to stretch and yawn, and makes to crawl off the couch in order to get ready for a work day. Whining, Lafayette tugs at the fabric of his pajama shirt until he collapses back into his position as the big spoon.

“Don't leave me, baby,” they plead, giving him their classic puppy eyes and batting their long eyelashes. Lafayette was well aware of the effect they tended to have on their lover—George had had a soft spot for them ever since they'd met on that website, had often told them it had been love at first sight—but they didn't try to use that to their advantage very often. They were mostly content just _knowing_ that they had him wrapped around their little finger.

Sometimes, however, desperate times called for desperate measures. And wanting to spend the day wrapped up in his arms, uninterrupted, but having that goal threatened? Qualified as a pretty desperate time.

George sighs softly, props himself up on his elbow so that he can stare down at where Lafayette was innocently pouting and batting their eyelashes at him. _They're so beautiful,_ he thinks to himself, unable to stop his stupid grin that forms at the magnificent sight. _So cute, too. I don't_ want _to leave them._

But he had to, especially if he wanted to keep doing certain things—like expensive surprise anniversary trips or the occasional splurge on clothes shopping—that he knew Lafayette enjoyed, but would never admit to. He'd promised when they became exclusive that he'd take care of them, and he meant it in every sense of the word.

“I have to go to work, princess,” he says, using their favorite affectionate pet name to soften the blow of his rejection. Lafayette whines anyways, their pouting becoming almost bratty. “I gotta make money for us.”

“I make money for us!” they exclaim indignantly, and George chuckles. They did, this was true. In France they had been a brief media sensation for being a child prodigy child artist, and their paintings sold for thousands of dollars there. They did make their own money, and lots of it—George just wasn't too fond of letting them use it for anything outside of their schooling or purchasing materials for new artworks. After all, they'd wanted a sugar daddy for a _reason_.

“I know you do. But I don't want you to have to,” he explains, taking one of their perfectly manicured hands and kissing the knuckles. He presses a kiss to each individual finger, melting them under his touch with each contact.

 _“S'il te plaît, reste, mon coeur,"_ they plead with their sweetest voice, sitting up now. George falls back onto the couch with the sudden movement—laying with his back against the armrest as they move to straddle his lap. With their hands resting on his shoulders—and his hands almost reflexively coming up to grip their hips—they lean forward until their lips are just centimeters away from his and say, **“Let's just stay in bed today.”**

George shakes his head, though his will is weakening with every second. In this position, with them looking so angelic above him… how could he ever possibly say no? It almost seems sinful to deny them this, to deny them _anything_ in the world.

“Laf—” he tries to start in protest, but Lafayette hushes him with a gentle yet passionate kiss on the lips. Its small and short lived, and George can taste that distinctly-Lafayette honey sweet on his lips when their tongue darts across his bottom lip.

“I promise, I'll make it worth your while,” they swear when they break the kiss, before moving their lips down over the line of his jaw. George can feel them suckling kisses along his jawline and eventually a path down to his neck until he begins to bruise. He knows that even if he _did_ deny them, the evidence of what had made him late to work would be too blatantly obvious.

“I suppose it wouldn't kill me to have _one_ sick day, would it, m’love?”

“Of course, not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mon coeur - my heart  
> S'il te plaît, reste, mon coeur - Please, stay, my heart


	28. To Withstand A Test of Time (Hercules/Maria)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brighter hope for a better future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘I did a pregnancy test. It’s positive, but there's no way it could be yours.’
> 
> tw: rape, dubious consent, descriptions of violent abuse, and abortions

Hercules is exhausted, and his shoulders bear the weight of his day. His brain numbly recalls the details of the stressful day—a last minute hemming on a wedding dress, late night boxing of his new line of sweaters being shipped out, a leak in the customer bathroom that had nearly ruined the dresses on the showroom floor… a whirlwind of disaster after disaster. Everything was fine now—he'd handled the situations fairly easily and even gotten a headstart on the custom prom dresses he was making. _And_ he'd helped make one brides wedding day remain the most perfect of her life, and that sort of satisfaction was what motivated him to keep running his own boutique.

He’s surprised to see that both Maria and Susan are still awake, playing happily with a box full of kittens—laughing and cooing at the small bundles of fur, not at all having noticed his entrance. His eyes fly to Maria, and her face morphs from amusement to joy when she finally does see him.

“Hey, Hercules, check these cats out! They were abandoned, babe—you should’ve _seen_ the poor things! In the freezing rain, after I picked Susan up from practice. We couldn’t just leave them there,” she explains excitedly, a child-like gleam in her eyes.

One kitten has been lifted and curled closely to her chest, and it purrs at the attention when she runs the tips of her fingers between his ears. Hercules sighs, scrubs his hand over his face—he's not even surprised that something like this happened again.

Most people collected stamps or coins or potato chips shaped like religious figures. Maria collected lost animals—especially the discarded, abused, sick ones that no one wanted. They’d had a slew of pets ever since they’d moved into a house together—from dogs to goldfish to bunnies and now… _kittens_. Six of them, from the sleepy count that Hercules takes in his head. All of them, pawing playfully at the two girls sitting on the floor.

Usually, the animals she picked up were fosters that found forever homes. However, occasionally, she'd find strays and there'd be no open no-kill shelters willing to take them. It seems as though this was one of those situations.

“I don’t even—I gotta pee,” he sighs, unable to find the words. Nothing he says will change her mind from keeping the kittens anyways. “Keep those _there_.”

“Where else would I take them?” she asks, petting the cat pressed against her chest. The kitten innocently blinks wide green eyes up at him, and he fights the urge to reach out and ruffle the tufts of fur at the top of his head. They’re cute—he’ll give them that. He just needed to figure out where they'd keep _six cats_.

“Back to where they came from?” he jokingly retorts, to the horrified gasp of ‘Daddy!’ from Susan. He barely dodges the magazine that is thrown after his head.

Hercules shuffles off towards the guest bathroom while Maria helps Susan name the kittens—John and Alex are both immediately brought up and, after long moments of laughter, shot down—the aching in his pants begging him for purchase.

As he’s relieving himself, he looks boredly around the bathroom. The small bachelor pad that he used to own alone had taken on an extreme look of girlishness ever since Maria moved in—though, she did somehow manage to make every room look cozier. Besides, her presence was strong—he's sure the bathroom would be just a pink and just as frilly if there were one thousand men living in the house.

He’s not at all surprised that Ocean Bay soap sits primly in a soap cozy on his sink, or that the trashcan is fucking sky blue.

Frowning, Hercules glances back to the trash can. _What was that?_ It’d been a glimpse—quick, buried mostly beneath tissues and drying towelettes, but there. White, and it looked a lot like a thermometer. Stuffing himself back in his pants and zipping up, Hercules reaches down and shuffles through the trash can—unearthing the strange looking object. He recognizes it immediately—he had watched his mother and father huddle around it four times in his childhood.

He's suddenly not very tired.

Why would _Maria_ need a pregnancy test? He wore condoms and she took the pill—he knew, he checked her pill case sometimes to see if he'd need to get her more. They had sex frequently enough, but he did his best to monitor things between the distractions of business and raising little Susan. And whilst they couldn’t afford a new baby right now—both he and Maria worked while Susie was at school, and neither of them had the financial stability required to quit their jobs—he doesn't know why she wouldn't tell him that she had her suspicions.

Unfortunately, the box isn't in the trash and Hercules can't tell if the test came back positive or not. But by the looks of it, it had been taken a while ago—maybe a couple of days. Had she been planning to hide this from him? And if so, for how long? Certainly not _too_ long—pregnancy started showing eventually, and she’d have to come clean.

He doesn’t have time to ponder an answer—laughter drifts from the living room and into the bathroom, reminding him that he shouldn't be taking this long. Tapping the pregnancy test against his unclipped nails, he eventually sets it against the sink to wash his hands before slipping out to the living room to where his girlfriend and child are.

“Babe, look! We have Raven,” Maria says, lifting the black kitten with the green eyes when she sees him. The smile on her lips betrays no secrets, and he hates to think she was omitting truth _right to his face_ . “and Buttercup, from Susie’s favorite movie. We’ve come to deadlock on Coal and _Char_ coal—I personally think Charcoal makes _much_ more sense, but Susan holds strong against me. Where do you stand?”

“Maria, do you have something to tell me?” he blurts, holding the stick up for her to see. The joy in her eyes immediately dims into sadness—shifting from bright bubbly happiness to a  dark, heartbroken grief in a matter of seconds. She turns to her child, her dark curly locks curtaining and hiding the kittens from his vision before she exhales and shakes her head.

“I knew this would come. Okay. **I did a pregnancy test. It’s positive, but there's no way it could be yours,”** she says quietly, petting one the the kittens. That had to be impossible. He knew that in the year they had begun dating and sleeping around together, they hadn't been exclusive. But in the past few months, they had been an official couple. There was no way she could be carrying a baby that wasn't his unless…

Immediately, Hercules’ heart takes a nosedive into his stomach.

“Who is he?” he asks bitterly, a lump forming in his throat making it difficult for him to get the words out. There's a thinly veiled rage boiling throughout his veins, making his muscles tense and his teeth grit. His mind swims with a thousand thoughts, none of them coherent enough to formulate on his tongue. He wants to scream and curse and _hit something_.

Terrifying his own self with that last sentiment, he furls and unfurls his fists, takes several deep breaths and points towards the staircase.

“Take your kittens and go play with them in your room, Susan. Daddy will come tuck you in soon,” Susan hesitates and looks nervously between her mother and stepfather, having been old enough to know what her _real_ father did when his voice got angry like that. But Hercules had always done his best to promise both of them that he'd never lay a hand on a hair on their heads. “I'm not gonna hurt her. I swear.”

Though still wary, Susan does as told—picking up the kittens and gently placing them back into the box before carrying it upstairs. Both Hercules and Maria wait in a thick silence, listening out for the sound of her door closing before they continue the conversation.

When they finally _do_ hear the short click that indicates she can no longer hear them, Hercules rehones his attention onto Maria.

“I'm going to try my best to be very open minded here. But you need to be honest,” he begins in calm yet shaky voice, doing his best to prevent himself from shouting or being accusatory. He's angry, and hurt, but he won't let that cloud his judgment. “Who is he?”

Maria takes a deep breath and moves to sit on the couch, hands twisting themselves about in her lap. She pats the seat beside her, and he goes to join her without second thought. He may be furious right now, but this is still the love of his life. He wanted to marry this woman one day, start a life with her. If she had done what he thinks she had, then he already knew he wanted to make it work.

“Herc, you _know_ I love you,” she says slowly, and he can tell by her voice that she's about to cry, too. Seeing her so distressed isn't making anything about this situation easier. “I haven't, nor will I _ever_ do anything to maliciously hurt you. You saved my life and you saved my daughter's life. You're a great guy, a loving boyfriend, a doting father. I'd be stupid to fuck that up on purpose.”

“Get to the point, Maria.”

She exhales again, wipes hastily at the tears that have begun to fall. By now, Hercules can begin to see through his own emotions, and what he finds makes his stomach twist even more. There's something eating away at her, he can see it in her eyes. But its almost as if she's too afraid of the consequences that will come if she says it.

At this point, he's wondering if something else is gravely wrong. If Maria hadn't done this out of her own selfish needs, then how the hell had she wound up pregnant with a child that isn't his?

“Babe, I want you to know I’m _so_ sorry. I'm really, _really_ sorry. He's been using the spare key to let himself into our house so he can have sex with me every other night for the past two months. He never uses condoms. He says that he likes to fuck me in our bed, because he knows ‘he's pissing all over your territory’. I _have_ to let him. He says if I don't give him what he wants, he'll make our family court Judge give him full custody of Susan and he'll take her back to Ohio. His Dad has higher up connections, he can get her _taken_ from me.”

She's full on crying now, tears falling before she can catch them. Loud, ugly sobs shake her entire frame until she's a fearful, trembling mess in his arms. Hercules, all of his anger evaporated into guilt and sorrow, squeezes her closer to him and gently rocks the two of them back and forth. Though she doesn't say a name, he automatically knows who this ‘he’ is.

James Reynolds had been her ex-husband, the father of her daughter. An abusive, manipulative, sociopathic rich alcoholic with a ‘God’ complex, he'd stolen Maria’s childhood and made her life hell. She was fourteen and he was twenty-five when her mother signed the consent form to marry her off to him, and he'd taken her off to New York in order to prevent her from having any contact with a world outside his. For years he'd raped, beaten, manipulated and pimped Maria—laughing whenever she threatened to call the cops to escape, because his father was a well-respected judge and his uncle was a police commissioner.

Maria had only managed to get away when he went in on a DUI, and a lawyer at the police station saw her bruised arms while she tried to keep her toddler still. He helped her get a divorce, find a life away from James. That lawyer was also how Hercules had met her.

Now the bastard was back, and not only had he been raping Maria again, he'd gotten her pregnant.

The truth is, Hercules is mad. He's livid, vibrating with rage. One of the main thoughts running on loop in his mind is ‘I'm gonna kill him’. He's well aware of why James was so keen on decimating his girlfriend, his bed, his _home_ . The cowardly bastard made the mistake of lifting a hand to Maria once before when he was around, and Herc had sent him away cowering, with his tail between his legs. He'd humiliated him, and this was James’ payback for it. He also knows the only reason that James was able to pull off something _this_ bold is because he operated under the assurance that Maria  would be too ashamed of what she was being forced to do to say anything. So yeah, even if she _weren't_ his girlfriend and the mother of the stepdaughter, he's furious that the slimy asshole had found a way around Hercules to manipulate, rape and control Maria.

And besides the anger, he feels guilt and grief. Hercules had thought he'd gone to all the extremes to keep his new, little family safe. Had bought Maria new license plates for her car, enrolled Susan in a private charter school, rented a new house, installed a security system, changed their phone numbers _twice_ … hell, he even bought and kept a gun under their bed. He'd tried his hardest to protect her, and still he failed. He had let James get to her and hurt her after he promised that would never happen again.

He knows, however, that there's a time and place for both of these emotions. And right now, he didn't need to express either of them. He needed to be a comfort to Maria, and he needed to help her figure out their next step.

“I know its unbelievable,” Maria continues, after several long minutes of neither of them saying anything, wiping at her nose with the back of her sweater sleeve. Hercules offers her a packet of Kleenex from his pocket. “It sounds like a stretch. But I swear, I have the text messages.”

“When did you realize you were pregnant?” Hercules asks quietly. Grabbing the Kleenex to blow her nose, Maria glances up at the ceiling as though she's thinking. She's still crying, rivers paving tracks down her cheeks but her sobs have at least devolved into little hiccups. Hopefully, she was calming down a little.

“Two weeks ago, I think… I just had a funny feeling so I took the test. Then I skipped work and went to my gynecologist this morning. She says I'm two and a half months along. I did the math on the estimated conception date… you went out of town to open your new location that entire weekend. James was over all three nights. But its gonna be okay, because I scheduled an appointment at the Women's Health Clinic for next week and—”

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Hercules interrupts, pulling away from their close embrace so that he can look into her eyes. He searches her expression for a twinge of a smile, for her to grin and say ‘gotcha!’. When she doesn't, he tilts his head. “You don't… you're not going to have an abortion, are you?”

“What else is there for me to do, Hercules? I love Susan, I do. She's my sun, my moon and all my stars. But I don't wanna carry another one of his babies. The only kids I ever want to have again are yours.” There's a desperation to her words, almost as if any other option is completely unacceptable in her world. He's aware that its not his body, and whatever decision she makes is ultimately the final one, but he can't help but plead his case.

“Maria, you know I'll support you through _anything_. Even this. But James won't be a permanent part of your life—if it's the last thing I see to. This is a very permanent decision that could seriously impact your future. And you know the baby will have a good home. I don't care if its not mine biologically, I'll be its father and I'll be a damn good one. And it'll have an amazing big sister and a strong, awe inspiring mother. Can you… can you think about it for me?”

Maria looks down at her hands, reaches up with a tissue to wipe the remnants of the tears from her face. The expression that rests there almost completely shatters Hercules’ heart—or it would, if everything he's heard tonight hadn't already done the trick. She looks so… hopeless. Terrified. _Alone_. He'd never seen Maria look so broken, so completely worn down.

He doesn't want to push her off the edge. After all, its been a long night and she's been through a lot these past few months.

Hercules takes her hand in his before she can lower it back down to her lap, wrapping his hand around it and bringing her knuckles up to his lips.

“Hey, no matter what happens—I'll still support you, ‘Ria. And I'll always love you. Now, let's go tuck Susie in so we can get some rest.”


	29. Favorite Deadly Sin (Angelica/Theodosia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelica isn’t like other girls, but that doesn’t make Theodosia want her any less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'This is going to hurt, a lot. But I need you to be as quiet as possible, okay?’ / ‘That was my first kiss.’
> 
> tw: transphobia, violence, tr*nny slur

Theodosia drums her fingernails against the windowsill of her new bedroom, staring at the beautiful moon through the branches of the trees outside and trying to avoid biting them off—Mother hated when she did that. Distantly, she can hear Grandmother complaining to Mother and Grandfather upstairs—moaning about how rough the movers were handling her fragile tchotchkes—but she's trying her best to tune that out. She needs to be all eyes and ears looking out for Angelica.

Angelica. Theodosia had only started at her new school two months ago, and her expectations of meeting anyone with any shared interests were unbelievably low at the time. After all, this wasn’t the Upper East Side anymore—now that Mother and Father were divorced, and they’d moved into the working class, she figured there would be no other girls interested in the culture she was interested in. Or at least, Mother had warned her of that—had made it perfectly clear that the children at her new school would have no proper upbringing, would be cultureless animals and that she would have nothing in common with them. There would be no more opera or STEM. No other girls that could speak four fluent languages, or play three classical instruments. If Mother’s lecture was anything to go off of, Theo was fully expecting to be an outcast at George King Middle School.

But she’d been thoroughly surprised when she’d met the Schuyler sisters—a trio of girls that had moved away from the Upper East Side as well, earlier in the year. More importantly, Theodosia had become _enamored_ with Angelica.

Okay, she _knows_ that her feelings are immoral and that she’s going to be sent to hell if she keeps it up. Her family was made up of traditional Catholics—she attended Sunday school every Sunday morning, mass every Sunday afternoon, and prayed before every meal and sleep. When she was seven, she once ran out of books to read so her mother made her read both the King James Version and the New International Version of the Bible cover-to-cover. Theodosia knows that there was a God, and she knows how that God feels about sodomy.

But she simply can’t help herself. She had tried a thousand times over, but she couldn’t help stop thinking about how beautiful Angelica is. The other girl’s long curly hair that just looked so soft and smelled like cinnamon, her wide brown eyes with her long eyelashes and her shining white teeth in that gorgeous smile. There was a burning shame every time she had to cross her legs in class to avoid any impure thoughts about Angelica from tainting her innocence, but there was also a burning desire deep in the pits of her tummy. Theo had tried to rationalize it in her head—tried to work out the kinks and details so that she could love Angelica _and_ still go to Heaven. One thought had been that since technically, Angelica wasn’t all girl, maybe God wouldn’t smite her down every time she fantasized about kissing her?

Theodosia sighs, tears her eyes away from the window. No, that just made it _worse_. Admittedly, Theo hadn’t _immediately_ noticed that Angelica wasn’t actually a girl. Or at least, she hadn’t been _born_ one. Probably because Angie hadn’t done anything to give away the fact that she was any different. She wore the same girly, colorful bras other girls wore, and she changed in the locker rooms with other girls during their PE period, and she even carried around tampons in her backpack just like other girls. Except…

It had taken her sister, Eliza, to explain why all the other kids at school avoided Angelica like the plague or why she sometimes spent the entire day in the nurse's office. After a boy had pushed down the eldest Schuyler sister down the stairs and called her a ‘tranny’, Angelica had locked herself in the school nurses’ bathroom and refused to come out—even when the lunch bell rang and they had to go to class. Eliza had told Theodosia then, while they were sitting on the floor outside the bathroom door eating their lunch and waiting on Angie, what it meant to be a trans girl. Up until that moment, Theo hadn’t even known such a person _existed_.

That night at dinner, Theodosia had made the unfortunate mistake of asking her mother if trans-people would go to heaven, too. She’s only fourteen, she’s very sheltered… she hadn’t even known what it meant to be trans until that afternoon. Her mother, of course, thought she was trying to drop a hint of some sort. She screamed and yelled at Theo about not respecting the body God blessed her with, and made her kneel in salt overnight as a penance.

Theo had learned to never ask again, and certainly to never bring any of the Schuyler sisters around to her home.

However, she’s breaking that rule right now. Angelica had texted her earlier, mostly incoherent gibberish and button-mashing. But there had been one text that stood out—SOS COMING OVER. Theo had responded, telling her to climb in through the downstairs window. Now she’s doing her best to focus, to listen out for the sound of bushes rustling or feet hitting pavement—she wants to avoid having Angelica tap on the window by having it already open. But all she can do is worry and think and think and worry. She wonders what the ‘SOS’ is about, she wonders if everything is alright…

She wonders if she’ll be able to pull off Angelica sneaking into her room without Grandmother, Grandfather or Mother noticing.

Her eyes flit to the clock. It had been fifty-five minutes since her text. Five more minutes until it was approximately ten o’clock. Theodosia’s bedtime is ten thirty, so she’s hoping Angelica would arrive before then and she can properly hide the girl before her Mother comes in to conduct bedtime prayer.

She groans at how ‘perfect’ and ‘punctual’ she sounds in her head and moves away from the window in order to stop stressing over it. She can’t stand it. Theodosia has _never_ enjoyed waiting very much. Admittedly, she’s too much of a spoiled Daddy’s girl—Father never makes her wait for anything she wants, and when she does have to be patient it isn’t for very long. She’s a little restless, and it doesn’t help that the message Angie sent had a blaring sense of urgency. Though she doesn’t want to think of it too deeply in that way, she has a fear that Angelica is very, very hurt.

“She’s not coming,” she whispers aloud, into the quiet of her room. She knows that her grandparents and mother had retreated to the living room by now—probably to watch the evening news before bed. Still, she doesn’t dare make a sound too loud to draw attention to herself. It was almost as if her mother had hound like hearing—Theo could sneeze the wrong way and the woman would be in with a box of tissues and a thermometer. “She’s not coming, I can’t believe I—”

A small tapping against her bedroom window draws her attention away from her oncoming rant, and she whips around so fast that tendrils of hair slap her in the face. Theodosia hurries over to the window to let Angelica in quickly, and once she’s safely standing in her room, she examines the girl for any injuries.

Of course, Theodosia’s worst fears are confirmed the second she’s able to get a good look. The taller girl sports a bloodied nose, a black eye and a busted lip. She’s covered in sweat and tears have made dirty, red rivers on her cheeks. There are scratches and bruises covering her arms and thighs—or at least, what Theodosia can see through the holes in her jeans.

“Angie…” she whispers, bringing a shaking hand to the side of her face. When their skin makes contact, Angelica hisses in pain and turns away—and with that side of her face in the light, Theo can see that the side of her face is swollen and the inside of her mouth is bloody. “Angel, who _did_ this? What happened?”

“Some boys from school,” she explains, her voice almost muffled from how swollen her lip and tongue are. She begins crying again, standing in the center of her best friend’s room, so Theo sets her down at the vanity. “They were egging and tagging our house when I told them to go away. I thought they were just trying to scare me. They wouldn’t leave though, they just kept calling me names. ‘Tranny’ and ‘faggot’ and ‘sissy boy’. They barged into our house when I tried to close the door and beat me up. They pulled my hair, kicked me, hit me, spit on me. I told Eliza to get Peggy and John and lock them in her room. She did, and told me she was gonna call Daddy. That’s when they finally ran. I… I didn’t want my siblings to see what they did to me, so I came here.”

Theodosia listens to the story intently, her brow furrowing into a deeper and deeper as the other girl speaks. When her best friend—and crush—finishes, tears are brimming in the rims of her own eyes. She can’t believe the kids at school would do something like that to their fellow classmate, especially since Angelica went out of her way to be nice and had done nothing to them. It not only hurts her that there’s evil like that in the world, an evil that would allow people to hurt other, innocent people like that, but that Angelica had to endure it.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. Those kids are the devil,” Theo whispers, gently pushing her matted hair away from her face. She leans in close to her best friend, uses her thumbs to clear the tears from beneath her eyes—doing her best to be gentle. “I have a first aid kit and I think I can clean up your wounds. **This is going to hurt, a lot. But I need you to be as quiet as possible, okay?** ”

Angelica nods her head, and Theo grabs the kit from under her bed. She had kept it from when she earned her ‘first aid’ badge in the Girl Scouts—each girl that had earned the badge had been given a kit for their hard work to use in day-to-day life—and she praises God that she’d decided to get that badge first instead of her ‘campfire’ badge.

Using some baby wipes—she can’t risk going out into the kitchen and getting a bowl of warm water, it’d raise her family’s suspicions—she dabs at Angelica’s face, wincing whenever there’s a hiss of pain from her friend. She drags the wipes over the cuts and bruises, making sure the wounds are properly cleaned—all with the background noise of Angelica’s whimpers of pain. It takes most of the wipes in the package to clean up the blood, tears and dirt—Angie explains that the dirt was from the bottom of one of the boys’ shoe, where he’d been kicking and stomping her—from her skin, but eventually the first task is completed. Despite the swollen eyes and lips, Theo can’t help but think of how pretty the other girl looks now that she’s been cleaned up. How pretty she looks in general, even despite the pain in her expression. When Angelica gives her a sad smile, she has to fight the heat of the blush that rises in her cheeks.

Theodosia pauses as she throws the dirtied wipes away, listening out for her family. She can hear Mother and Grandmother chatting about the church ladies and Grandfather snoring, so she turns back to Angelica—satisfied that no one had turned her attention to her yet.

“Are you sure Eliza is going to be okay with Peggy and the baby?” she asks, wanting to distract her friend from the tremendous pain she seemed to be in. She’s getting the gauze and bandages now, putting one over a cut on her eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Angie whispers back, doing her best to keep her voice low. Theo appreciates the effort to greatly, giving her reassuring smile. “Eliza is thirteen now, Daddy says that I have to trust her to take care of herself more. And Peggy is only ten, but she understands how important it is that she minds Liza and me. As for the baby, he’s a good baby. He doesn’t cry very much, and he sleeps a lot. Eliza can handle them, at least for a little while. Until Daddy gets home.”

“What if those kids go back?” Theo asks, placing a gauze over a cut on her cheek. Angelica hisses in pain at the contact, but slaps her hand over her mouth to muffle it. Feeling for her, Theo hands her some more of the wipes to dry her tears and tries to have a lighter hand.

“I-I don’t know,” the girl admits, when the pain has subsided and her tears are dried. “I locked the door when I left, and told Eliza to lock the double bolt before she went back up to the office. Hopefully, if Daddy can’t come back, he’ll send Uncle John over to look after them. I just… I couldn’t stay, Theo. I try to be strong for them, I really do, but its hard. I didn't want them to see me cry. I’m sorry you have to do this.”

“Oh, no!” Theodosia exclaims, before slapping her hand over her mouth in similar fashion to what Angelica had done earlier. The two girls sit stone still in silence, waiting for any of the adults in the house to burst in the room and catch them redhanded. When, after five minutes, none of them do, Theo continues—this time, in a far softer voice. “No, no! You don’t need to apologize for _anything_ , Angie. I know its hard, with everything you go through. And you’re just a kid, too, you shouldn’t have to deal with all of this. But I like that you can come to me, and I like that you trust me. It’s my honor to help you. I’d do anything for you.”

It takes a few moments for her words to register in her ears, but when she does, Theodosia’s cheeks immediately begin to burn. She realizes that despite her efforts to be discreet, she’d just blatantly revealed her true feelings about the other girl. The heat of her blush spreads even to her ears—making them hot and tinge with a light pink. Her eyes widen when she further realizes that Angelica _saw_ the double entendre of her words, and she opens her mouth to hurriedly fix her mistake—somehow deflect the conversation, or maybe even deny the meaning of what she’d said.

But before anything can come out, Angelica is gently pressing her lips against hers. It’s certainly nothing like the deep, open-mouthed kisses Theo had seen in movies like _Pretty Woman_ —a movie that she had once naughtily snuck into the DVD Player after her family had gone to bed. There is no tongue like she’d heard some of the High School girls talk about. No fondling, no heavy making out, no hair-pulling, no burning desire for anything further than that simple little kiss. None of the things she’d sheepishly read about in fanfictions.

Its a simple, five-second long peck on the lips before Angelica pulls away.

But it makes her fourteen-year-old heart leap from her chest and soar. Theodosia hasn’t even noticed she’d closed her eyes until she’s opening them, eyes delighted to find that Angelica is giving her a goofy yet nervous grin. Her mouth is still bloodied, and her face is still bruised and swollen, but she’s grinning. And Theo can’t help but be relieved that she’s smiling again, that she’s not sad—at least, she isn’t for the moment. Hopefully, despite the obvious reminders, the kiss had made her momentarily forget the attack just like Theodosia had momentarily forgotten everything she’d ever known.

“Why did you do that?” she asks when she can finally form coherent thoughts, unable to keep the giddiness from her hurried whisper.

“I dunno. ‘Cause you’re nice. ‘Cause you’re pretty. ‘Cause I like you. ‘Cause I know it’d make your Mom have a heart attack if she knew,” Theodosia giggles at that, hiding her own smile behind a hand. Despite her laughter, it does remind her why they’re whispering and why she’s so anxious about having Angelica here in the first place. “Why? Did you not like it?”

“No. I did. I liked the kiss. I like you, too. It’s just… **that was my first kiss,”** she confesses sheepishly, suddenly feeling a bit like a little kid. What if Angelica was a professional kisser, who’d had tons of boyfriends or girlfriends before? How would she ever compare to that? The closest she’d gotten to a kiss was those small little pecks on the lips her Grandmother gave her.

However, her growing fears are assuaged when the battered girl says, “Mine, too.”

Theodosia’s blush deepens, and she can feel her whole body warming up. _I was Angelica’s first kiss!_ she thinks triumphantly, tiny little fireworks exploding in her brain, in her chest, underneath her skin. It not only makes her feel better about never having kissed anyone before, but it also makes her feel proud that they’d been each other’s firsts. It’s an added bonus that this was the girl she’d had a crush on for the longest.

Feeling empowered, brave and having a little headrush with the sudden turn the conversation has taken, Theodosia hurries out, “I-I know now isn’t the time, and that you’ve got a lot on your plate, and you probably want me to worry about your injuries and you don’t even have to answer me but… will you be my… my girlfriend, Angelica?”

“Sure, if you’ll be mine.”

“I’ll be your girlfriend. But first,” she puts a finger up to her lips and falls deathly quiet. She can hear her Mother telling her Grandmother that she ought to make sure Theo was in bed. “Quick, hide under my bed. I’ll get you out when she thinks I’m asleep and ride my bike with you home.”

Angelica nods her head, wincing as she slips from the vanity and onto the floor. She quickly wiggles underneath the mattress, commenting with surprise about how much wiggle room there is. Theodosia giggles again, flicking off her lamp and crawling beneath her blankets to pretend she’s been asleep.

“Hey, Theo?” Angelica asks, as Theodosia’s Mother’s footsteps approach her bedroom.

“Yes, Angie?”

“Thank you... girlfriend.”

“You’re welcome, girlfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took every muscle in my body not to censor the 't' word like i always do


	30. Home Is Where The Heart Is (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette has to go home, Washington assures them that’s with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘My visa renewal has been denied.’ ‘So?’ ‘So I'll be sent back to ___ at the end of the month.’
> 
> yes, yes more washette i know

The Washington household is eerily quiet when George steps through the front door after work, which is strange because it had never been like that before. In fact, it had been loud with children’s laughter and whatever Disney movie Lafayette happened to put in when he’d left to the office that morning. They’d offered to babysit little Phillip Hamilton for their best friend and his junior detective, Alex—the young man’s girlfriend had taken a much-needed spa weekend and forced him to spend time with his son, but he had insisted he go into the office with Washington—and had been happily munching Captain Crunch with the toddler when he’d kissed them goodbye.

Now the place is about as lively as a graveyard at midnight, with all the lights off in the house that he can see except for the faint bluish glow emitting from the television—which, when George keens his ears, he realizes is on mute. Stepping into the living room, he finds Phillip’s little figure curled on the couch, sleeping soundly with a pacifier in his mouth. George pats the kid on the head affectionately before dropping his suitcase on the couch and heading towards the kitchen—where he finally notices there is a light on.

He finds his lover, Gilbert, is in the dining room—watching the television from their chair at the table and sipping a cup of blackberry tea. Gone cold, judging by the way they wrinkle their nose as they swallow. Everything about the setting is becoming increasingly odd and unsettling—Gilbert usually hated the blackberry flavored tea, and they _always_ jumped up to kiss and greet him excitedly when he came through the door. Normally, they were so hyperactive and clingy—all over him the second he could return their affections, all kisses and a severe lack of personal space. Instead, they’re pointedly ignoring him.

It hurts. Especially since George, who used to be so lonely, had grown accustomed to the constant affection and attention. Been spoiled by the warm feeling of having someone love him.

“Earth to Gil, is anyone home?” he teases lightly as he crosses over to where they sit, hoping that maybe that’ll draw them out of themselves and at least make them look at him. Gilbert looks up from their tea and there’s a brief flash of amusement in their eyes—the first glimpse of emotion he’s seen from them tonight. His heart involuntarily flutters with hope at the small smile that dares to tug at the corner of their lips, but then cool empty expression returns and they go back to watching the silent television. Washington’s heart takes a tumble, but remains persistent.

“Unfortunately,” they reply coolly, fingers tapping at the mug idly. The ice in their voice takes the older man aback, but his attempt at a reassuring smile doesn’t falter until they make a show of turning their head away from him. Moving though the kitchen, George removes a bag of tea from the cupboard with a sigh and takes a clean mug down from the cabinet.

“You hate blackberry tea, m’love. Your favorites are cinnamon and vanilla. What’s gotten into you today?” he asks, becoming tired of this elusive attitude and charade of nonchalance. Lafayette shakes their head sadly and their eyes finally flit up to his. He takes the nanosecond of a glance to try and gauge their expression—to try and find out whether or not they’re angry with him, or if there’s something else gnawing at their soul. But they look away too quickly, this time their eyes finding their hands in their lap.

Washington rolls his eyes, quickly becoming exasperated with their sudden icy behavior. He doesn’t even bother wracking his brain to see what he’d done wrong—once he thinks about it properly, he discerns there’s nothing. They were in the cupcake stages of their relationship, everything all cuddles and kisses. They hadn’t so much as had a disagreement. There was nothing obvious that could have triggered this—and Lafayette wasn’t the type to become easily disgruntled with small, perceived slights.

No, there was something that happened while George was at work and it had shaken Gilbert so much they had shut themselves down. This had only ever happened once before—after they’d received a call from France saying their Mother had been admitted to a psychiatric facility. Because of this, the older man is able to deduce that something traumatic must’ve happened while he was gone—and a thick, growing knot of tension settles in his stomach when he comes to the realization that he has to find out what it is.

He turns on the tea kettle and places a vanilla tea bag in the new, clean mug. He goes through the mechanical motions of adding their favorite things—milk, sugar, a bit of honey. The entire time, Lafayette just sits there—eyes distant, and cold, and focused on their hands folded in their lap.

Eventually, Gilbert breaks from whatever haze they’re trapped in and stands, wiping their sweaty palms on their jeans. There’s something akin to exhaustion in their hazel eyes and George doesn’t like the way they look so… broken. They’re such a strong person, yet they look like they’re on the very _brink_ of it all falling apart. It sends chills up his spine, and not the pleasurable kind.

He follows them with his eyes as they take the mug of tea they’d been holding and pour the cold liquid down the drain. There’s something rigid and thoughtful in their movements that tells him something is _extremely_ wrong with them. _Something is extremely wrong, full stop_. George’s task of making them some better tea is quickly forgotten and he comes to stand behind them as they wash out the mug.

Gilbert’s breathing hitches at the strong presence of George’s arms on either side of their waist, hands gripping the counters edge. The cup clatters into the sink and their hands join his—their grip on the counter paling their knuckles as their eyes flutter closed. They physically can’t resist leaning into the warmth he brings with him, their lips parting ever so slightly in exhale. His hands move from the counter to rest on their hips and he pulls them against his chest, his chin resting on their shoulder.

“What’s going on?” he asks, voice firm but quiet. Lafayette shudders at his words, and it’s just what they needed. It seems every fibre of tension in their muscles evaporates all at once, and the calm facade they were trying to keep crumbles into nothing. A choked sob claws its way from their throat and they completely break down, tears pouring down their face.

“ICE sent me a letter today,” Gilbert admits, and it’s evident in their raspy voice just how broken they are. It becomes clear that they’d been crying earlier—which is probably why they’d avoided doing much talking when he came in. Another thing George takes note of is just how truly worn out they are. They just seem so weak and fragile in his arms, it worries him so much. **“My visa renewal has been denied.”**

 **“So?”** George asks naively, though he’s much smarter than that. The second Laf had mentioned ‘ICE’, he’d known where it was going. He already knows what this means, and just the thought had him gripping them so tight he knows it’ll leave a mark later. He closes his eyes and exhales, wills the tears brimming in his eyes to stop in their tracks.

 **“So… I’ll be sent back to France at the end of the month,”** they finish, before choking out another sob and burying their face in his chest. George wraps his arms tightly around their sobbing frame, a grimace on his face. He wants so badly to cry with them, to break down to the tiled kitchen floor and bawl just like his lover was doing. But he knows Lafayette needs him to be strong for them, and he’s going to do just that. He knows how much they always dreaded going back to their home country. “I _can’t_ go back there. I have no one there, nothing. Adrienne married and moved to Venice. _Ma_ _mémé_ and _Papa_ are dead. _Maman_ is in an psych ward, driven mad by grief. All of my family is here. My cousin, my best friends… the love of my life. What am I going to do?”

George opens and closes his mouth, unsure of what to say. He’s done many things involving US law in his life—joined the Navy, went to law school, even became a cop. He knew a lot about crimes, and laws, and international affairs. But he wasn’t well-versed in immigration laws. He had never given it much thought before—he’d known that Lafayette had come to America on a work visa to participate in some modeling-photography gig with some models and photographers from around the world, but he’d never given it much thought that the visa would be up.

Now, he doesn’t know what to do. Where to even _begin_. He makes a note to call Alexander and Thomas about it later, they both were immigrants—Alex to America, Thomas to France—and they both had dual citizenships.

But right now, he needs to comfort his partner.

“Okay,” he breathes, pulling Lafayette away from the embrace just slightly so that he can get a good look at their face. He cups their cheeks and angles their head back to look into their red, puffy eyes, thumbing away their tears. “It’s going to be _alright_ , m’love. You know that I would never, _ever_ let you go back there if you didn’t want to. You can stay here for as long as we need, Laffy.”

“But… but I’d be breaking the law. I’d be an _illegal_!” Lafayette exclaims, fear flashing in their eyes. “You _know_ what ICE does to illegals, George. You’ve seen the internet videos of families being ripped apart, people being dragged from their homes and their jobs. I couldn’t bear _that_ being my goodbye to you.”

George swallows thickly, knowing the words he was about to say would be _awful_ but true—it was the reality of their political climate right now. “Not to European immigrants. We tell ICE that it was an innocent mistake. You didn’t get the letter, you didn’t know. And meanwhile, baby… hey, look at me,” he shakes Lafayette gently, because their attention had begun to wander—they were looking away, looking distantly at the clock on the wall. “ _Meanwhile_ , we figure out how to get you citizenship.”

“George, this is wrong… that’s wrong,” they whisper, balling their fists up in the cloth of his shirt. He sets his jaw, looks away from their face to gather himself further. “Baby, I can’t lie. That’s not me. I can’t do that. And you, you’re a cop! You could lose your job if they find out!”

“Our only other option is you packing your shit and going back to a country that has _nothing_ for you anymore,” Washington hisses, urgency filling his voice. “Lafayette, I will not have you ripped from me over some silly piece of fucking paper. I don’t give a damn if I’m cop, I don’t give a damn about it morally. You belong here in America. You belong with me. I love you too much and we’ve been through too much for me to lose you like _this_.”

“George…”

“Please, Lafayette. Your home is here. It’s where your heart is.”

They close their eyes and give a small relenting nod, resting their ear against his heart. “Okay. Okay, George. We’ll be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i,,, love this ship so much its the purest. also, this george & laf is from an AU i never got around to writing. its one where george is a captain of the narcotics department of the NYPD and lafayette is a esteemed french model and american photographer. i’ve always wanted to write that au (it features laf getting shot by a con that george put away in his rookie days and the entire team figuring out who dunnit) but i’m not so good at mysteries and im even worse at writing multi-chaptereds.


	31. That Will Be Enough (Alex/Eliza)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old polaroid makes Eliza take a trip down memory lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?’
> 
> phew i had yet to write hamliza and my first time writing it its nothing but angst :) no one reads these anyways so no harm no foul
> 
> also, some older hamfam. Eliza & Alex are around 38 here

Eliza doesn’t know why the picture makes her entire world come to a stop, nor does why she know why it makes her _think_ so much. But for some reason, seeing it affects her awfully deeply. She’d been cleaning out their attic for their move uptown—eventually, after asking Alexander to do something for three months with no results, you learn to toughen up and tackle the issue yourself—when she’d come across the box. Coated in dust, filled to the brim with an equally dusty, old Polaroid camera and _hundreds_ of yellowed pictures. Eliza recognizes the camera from her high school and college years. It had been a gift from Angelica on her fourteenth birthday, and she’d kept it throughout the years—documenting every memory she made, every important step she took throughout her life. Apparently, something had made her put the old camera up in the attic—along with every picture it had ever produced.

It had been almost ten years since she’d last opened the box of pictures. In that time, so many more memories had happened. She’d become a doctor, gotten married to who she thought was the love of her life, started a beautiful family. She had four children now, her own orthodontic practice. An entire life had been built since the day she squirrelled away the camera. There’d been many lows, as well. Her husband had cheated on her, twice—once with a _man_. Her son had been murdered. Her sister had been deployed into the battlefield and killed. Eliza had aged, and grown and changed into a woman. She wasn’t the same starry-eyed girl in those photographs. 

She supposes that might be why the picture hurts so much. A photograph of her and Alexander, a bit after they first met in university. Alex is looking off camera, at something to his right—and there’s a conviction in his eyes, which means he was probably on the verge of an argument. And Eliza is looking at him, and she can see the hearts in her own eyes through the faded memory. They’re at a lunch table on their old college campus, and there’s the faintest sight of Peggy’s arm to her left—Eliza recognizes the pride flag tattooed on her sisters outer bicep.

It brings stinging tears to her eyes, her staring at the photograph. It reminds her of the better days. Before Peggy and Phillip’s deaths, before Alexander cheated, before she even had kids or opened her own practice. When she was still just a child herself, so hopeful and helplessly in love with a man that could not be tamed. She’d been so happy and full of life, then—had never experienced tragedy, or heartbreak.

Compared to that girl, in that picture of youthful love and innocence, Eliza feels like an empty shell of her former self. She remembers being that bubbly, beautiful _bright_ girl. Full of energy, always on the move, always happy and smiling. That vibrant girl that was so helplessly in love with Alexander Hamilton had died. Now she just feels… drained all the time. Depressed and tired and alone. _Empty_. The infidelity of her husband—though forgiven—followed so quickly by both the deaths of her sister and her son had taken their toll on her. She’d aged several years, felt like it had been several decades.

It didn’t help that her marriage had obviously tanked. She loves Alexander, Eliza knows this. Looking at this Polaroid of a young girl, that is undeniable. Despite the challenges they’d faced over the years, she cares very deeply for the man she had taken vows with. Or at least… she _thinks_ she does. At some point, things had definitely changed but… not her feelings… or had they?

Now, that she really thinks about it and thinks about all the shit and pain that Alex had put her through over the years… she’s unable to really figure out if she truly _still_ loved him. After the affair he’d had with her best friend and his, and the people he’d pissed off that killed their son… things had changed between them. Their relationship had become less of a relationship and more of mask to the public. It was hollow. Alexander spent all of his time either in his work office or home office, sometimes not coming out for days on end. The kids… her daughter, Angelica, had to be put into a facility after Philip’s death and the twins spent all of their times at their best friends house—it had become like pulling teeth to get them to sit at the dinner table for more than ten minutes. Beth wouldn’t even _talk_ to her—she wouldn’t talk to either of her parents. She just shut herself up and listened to music all day. Everything had fallen apart over the years.

Including… including the love she once held for her husband.

“I’ve fallen out of love with him,” she says aloud, staring at that picture of herself in horror and sadness. She doesn’t know how to cope with that knowledge. Doesn’t know what to do with it, where to compartmentalize it so she can lock it away and never address it again. But it does help her to realize why the picture _bothers_ her so much. It points out something she’d been ignoring for nearly four years, something that she’d told herself wasn’t true.

“You’ve fallen out of love with who?” a voice says from behind her, sounding more heartbroken than she feels. She recognizes it as her husbands voice and briefly closes her eyes, takes this moment to gather herself and her thoughts. “Eliza?”

“I think—” she stops herself, because her eyes prickle with tears and it hurts, too much, for a moment. It hurts to realize that the man she spent all of those years with, that had fathered her children, that she’d shared a bed with… that she’d given vows to… “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

Eliza settles the box of photos back down onto the attic floor and tosses the picture back into it. She’s going to close it up for good when Alexander approaches from behind, hands settling on her shoulders. The action makes her freeze in her seat on her grandfather's old rocking chair—its the first act of intimacy they’d had that wasn’t for show in almost a year and a half. She’d forgotten what it felt like to have the softness of his hands do something as gentle and simple as caress her shoulder.

She scares herself when she notices that it does nothing for her. Though she’d missed the affection, and she’d missed their closeness, his touch doesn’t send electricity shooting through her veins like it did before all the damage. It doesn’t relax her, it doesn’t soothe her, she doesn’t feel the urge to lean into him.

 **“Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?”** Alexander asks quietly after a few seconds of silence, removing his hands and pulling up a dusty old piano bench to sit on. Eliza gives a small smile at the piano bench, eyes the covered up piano a few feet away in the corner. She’d given up teaching kids piano when Phillip died. He’d loved it. Had been very good at it—very talented. She remembers him being so excited when he got an acceptance letter from Julliard.

It felt wrong to continue teach kids when her son couldn’t learn anymore. Couldn’t pursue the career she’d known he’d be so talented at.

“Stop doing what, Alexander?” she asks, finally looking at his face. He’s aged as well, significantly. It’s very obvious that he isn’t that hyperactive, energetic young scrapper that he used to be either. The edges of his dark hair have begun to silver, as well as his goatee—and she cringes to find that he’s growing stubble elsewhere, especially considering she’d told him before how much she hated how scruffy and unkempt it made him look. There are deep bags beneath his darkened eyes, and crinkles in the corners. All in all, Eliza can tell she wasn’t the only one that had been affected by everything they’d been through.

“Pretending that things haven’t changed. Pretending that we’re okay. That everything will fix itself,” he says, folding his arms in his lap. “I know a counselor, Betsey. You know my friend, Aaron. His wife is a therapist. She’s a damn good one. We could get some marriage counseling. We can fix us.”

“I don’t want to go to your hookup of a therapist so she can tell me that I’m being reclusive and that I’m depressed yet absolve you of any sins,” Eliza snaps, swiping at her face to clear any tears. Sighing, she does her best to regain her calm. She realizes that though a lot of things in their relationship were Alex’s fault, her depression was not. He’d caused the things that made her develop it, but it wasn’t his fault her brain wouldn’t let her control it. “Besides. What if I don’t want to fix us?”

“You’re not saying what I think you’re saying.” She doesn’t respond, just shrugs and stares at the dusty box. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying. Things had been rough between the two of them, but she’d always taken the vows they’d taken seriously. _For sickness, and in health. ‘Til death do us part._ There had never been a divorce in her bloodline—dating all the way back to the seventeen-hundreds, her father used to say. Schuyler's didn’t believe in divorce. Schuyler's didn’t believe in suicide either or abandoning their families. Her Dad used to say in essence, they didn’t believe in taking the cowards way out.

But… Eliza isn’t sure if she can do this, anymore. She was miserable. The kids were miserable. Hell, she’s pretty sure that Alexander is miserable. Everything was a cycle, she was a zombie on auto-pilot day in and day out. And things didn't use to be that way. She and Alex used to be a happy, joyous romantic couple. There was a time where they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. And the kids… the kids used to be so happy. Beth used to be a bright, outgoing girl. The twins used to be inseparable from her hip, they adored their Mommy. Angelica… Angelica used to be so smart. The smartest in their family, she took after their father.

Now everything, all of them had changed. And she isn’t sure she wants to live like that anymore.

“I don't know. I don’t know, Alexander. I don’t know anything anymore,” she responds, rising from the rocking chair and wiping at dust on her nose. She looks around the mostly abandoned attic—at the things they’d collected from over the years. Skis from a trip to the Alps they’d taken six years ago, the twins’ old cribs, some old furniture from the first apartment they’d gotten together. Little pieces of their happier, brighter past.

“Eliza, I… I know I fucked up. But I also know who I married. A smart, loving, kind… forgiving woman,” Alex says, still sitting on the old piano bench. “Just… think about it. Think about our life. Everything we’ve built together, how long we’ve been together. How much I love you. And how much I know, I know you still love me. Just do that.”

“I—”

Alexander stands with her now, facing her. He places his hands on her shoulders again, this time steadying himself to stare into her eyes. For a moment, she sees the younger him—standing at the altar with her, holding her hands and promising a forever that did not seem to be happening. “I love you. And I _know_ that will be enough.”

He places his finger over her lips when she opens her mouth to speak again, shaking his head just slightly before leaving the attic through the small stairway. She watches after him, eyes on his back and filled with tears. She doesn’t know what to do, what to think. But she does know one thing.

She loves her family. She loves her children. And for them, she would try.

It would have to be enough.


	32. Phone Down (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> t took a bet for the two of them to stop being idiots and see what was in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘I bet you fifty bucks I can make you put your phone down.’

George Washington, better than anyone, could admite he’d become quite the workaholic over the years. There was simply no way to deny it—no matter how much he tried to convince his _worrisome_ friends otherwise, even he knew he worked himself to the bone. Even if he did want to refute the accusation, he certainly didn’t make it an easy fact to deny. Ever since he’d begun rise to power in politics—holding a seat in the Cabinet was a _huge_ responsibility, he continuously tells his roommates whenever he’s told to take a break—, he hadn’t stopped working for more than a second to pay attention the world around him. Its not like George could help it, really. The second he finished one task, and was ready to relax, another landed on his desk. The job was nonstop—it had to be, America certainly wasn’t going to stop functioning simply because he needed a nap—and so he had to be the same way. Although, he was at least careful enough to try not to turn into another Alexander Hamilton. That man’s bags had bags, and George isn’t sure he’s ever seen him sleep for more than the few milliseconds it takes to blink.

Despite George’s constant working, though, his roommate tried very hard to get him to slow down. To stop, and smell the roses and enjoy life instead of working it all away. He had come to like George, to enjoy his company whenever he was around. They’d known each other for seven years, but had only been living together since Lafayette had turned legal drinking age and gone to college. Been best friends ever since George was some PTSD-riddled ex-veteran trying to decide where to go with his life and Gilbert was a sixteen-year-old dropout, fresh from high school without the trust he’d grown up with and no set goals in life. It was odd how they’d met—at a bar that Laf had snuck into, both completely confused about what their next step would be—and even odder how they connected, considering the vast age difference. But their relationship was treasured.

In short, Lafayette had come to care greatly for George. Probably more than he reasonably should for two ‘roommates’.

For upwards of four years—it was a long time, wasn’t it? To live with someone and never go beyond an ‘accidental’ drunken kiss—Lafayette had come to admire George’s work ethic. He loved that he was passionate about his career, but what was the point of all the money being made and reputation being garnered if the man wouldn’t enjoy any of it?

This becomes prevalent again when, while attempting to watch a movie, George’s phone keeps going off. That wouldn’t be _such_ a problem—his phone was always going off, they were lucky if they got five minutes without an interruption—, if only George didn’t keep pausing the movie to answer it. When the buzzing of his phone goes off for the seventh time, and he picks up, Lafayette tries to convey his annoyance with a loud sigh.

“Look, I’m sorry,” George mutters, typing something rapidly into his phone. At least he wasn’t so oblivious as to not pick up on the hint. “I have to get this.”

“No, you _want_ to get it. Whatever it is, it can wait for another thirty minutes. The movie is almost over,” Lafayette retorts, examining his nails in order to seem disinterested. Its a way to hide his true disappointment and anger at the fact that his best friend’s job kept coming before their relationship… or, what Lafayette had been very slowly trying to _form_ into a relationship. He wanted George to pay attention to _him_ sometimes, too. Admittedly, he figured that if George wasn’t always working, he could see how desperately Lafayette wanted him—in every sense and aspect of the word.

“Even if I _didn’t_ have to get it, which I do,” he adds, pausing the typing of his message to shoot a warning look at his roommate. Lafayette's opening mouth slams closed. “I can’t help it. It’s _impulsive_.”

“Hm. **I bet you fifty dollars I can make you put your phone down** ,” Lafayette says, looking up at his friend. George snorts, as though he doesn’t believe whatever Lafayette is thinking could stop him from answering his ‘important business’. In response, Lafayette pouts, sitting further up in the couch. “What, you don’t think I could do it?”

“Stop me from handling important government business? No, I don’t. I’m sorry. You’re my closest friend, and I love you to pieces, but I can't stop serving America simply because you want my attention.”

Lafayette is undeterred. In fact, he sees this as the ultimate challenge and it spurs the resistance he’d had about making a move on the other man. Get George to pay attention  to him? That would be like taking candy from a baby. He’d seen how the other man looked at him when he wore his short-shorts around the house or did yoga in the living room. Hell, if he had known his roommate would accept such a challenge, he would’ve tried this _much_ sooner.

Briefly, however, Gilbert hesitates. Seven years was a long time to know someone, and George had only made a move that one time. What if… what if George rejected him? What if this made things awkward? Even despite them being the best of friends—Lafayette’s closest, he trusted George more than anything or anyone on this planet—making his move now might have detrimental effects.

Throwing all caution to the wind, internally saying ‘fuck it’, Lafayette moves from his position at the end of the couch to a spot closer to George, and Lafayette gently—and somewhat awkwardly, truth be told—nudges his way into his roommates lap, both of his thighs straddling the other mans legs. Taking one final breath of courage, he presses his lips against George’s.

It's somewhat of a start, because George’s work phone slips from his hands and when Lafayette pulls away, he’s on the receiving end of the most shocked expression he’d ever seen on George’s face. In all honesty, if he wasn’t so nervous about the other man's reaction he would’ve laughed.

“What are you doing?” George asks slowly, widened eyes watching his roommates expression cautiously.

“Distracting you,” Lafayette shrugs lamely, trying to be nonchalant about the situation. Afraid that if he let out just how long he’d been waiting to do something like that, it would make things between them just that much more messier. _I’m starting to have some regrets._

“What the hell? That’s what you call a suitable ‘distraction’?!”

“Well? It worked didn’t it?”

“Christ… no! I… goddamnit, what is _wrong_ with you?” George is exasperated now, hands running over his tired face. Laf can’t help but note that neither of them had made an effort to move from their position—and that he’s still straddling the other mans lap. It makes his cheeks tinge a light shade of pink when he realizes just how close they are, and exactly what the position could imply. Despite this, he still doesn’t move—liking how sensual it feels to be in the lap of the man he’d been hopelessly pining after for God knows how long.

“Nothing!”

“Then what the hell? Why _now_!?”

“What do you mean ‘why now’?”

“Jesus, Gilbert, are you dense or are you fucking with me? I’ve been trying to make passes at you for the last five fucking years!”

Laf blinks at this, and now its his turn to look utterly surprised. Something in his stomach untwists from its tight coil of nervousness and transforms into fluttering butterflies of hopefulness. George Washington had been making passes at him? _For five years?_ That seems _almost_ impossible. If he didn’t know just how painfully subtle the other man could be, he wouldn’t believe the claim. But he knows that George wasn’t a man of many words—nor of many actions, apparently. Briefly, he wonders exactly how many times the other man's patience had run short with how oblivious he’d apparently been,

“Really?” he asks softly, a giddy smile forming on his lips. “‘Cause I… I mean, I thought I was dropping hints. Not really good ones, apparently.”

“I guess not,” George sighs. Between them, his phone buzzes again. Lafayette raises his eyebrow at the other man—a ‘do-you-really-want-to-ruin-this-moment’ eyebrow, warning in his hazel eyes. If they hadn’t just made the most life-changing revelation in their relationship to date, he might be a bit more forgiving. But he’s not sure if he could stand to see George pick up that phone again, especially since they were apparently on the verge of confessing some serious feelings.

The other man gets the hint, and presses the power button—locking and turning the phone off again. “It can wait.”

“It better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it ends abruptly and i know- i did that on purpose. the reader is supposed to fill in with their imaginations what happens,


	33. Feel Like A Fool (Alex/Maria) [[NSFW]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s no fun to feel like a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘I wish I could hate you.’
> 
> In this, Maria doesn’t sleep with James because he makes her but of her own accord. There’s no Susan, there’s no James, just her badass self. I’m tired of writing victim Maria.
> 
> Title & Summary from Feel Like A Fool by Kali Uchis

Maria always prided herself on being a strong, straightforward, independent woman. A decently-raised girl with her head on straight and her morals right, it wasn’t often that she found herself in situations she didn’t have complete control of. She wore her bright red lipstick and her killer heels as armor against the tragedies and predators of the world—so much so that that every boy she’d ever come across admired, but didn’t really try to fuck with her. She cursed like a sailor and could drink even the biggest, burliest men under the table. Partied all night like she was on her last night on Earth and slept all day like she was in hibernation. Maria thought she had it pretty good. She wasn’t married and didn’t have kids, and she did whatever she pleased within reason—even traveled to the Jungle once for what felt like years and got high on Ayahuasca before finding her soul and herself—and she kicked ass… for the most part. She was in touch. She was cool. She was bad-motherfucking _-ass_.

So why was she letting herself be pinned against a wall as her best friends boyfriend nailed her from behind?

Alexander is strong and firm behind her, his hands holding hers behind her back, right above her ass. She _could_ tell him to stop. She could tell him to get the fuck away from her, get Aaron on his ass—Aaron protected her fiercely, and she honestly thought the kid had a crush on her before he started dating his current girlfriend—and get him to back the fuck off. She could think about Eliza for once, think about how much this would hurt her best friend if she ever found out.

But he feels so good inside her, and she’s just on the verge of coming.

“Fuck, Alex,” Maria growls. “C’mon, quit fucking around. Get me off, baby, _please_.”

“I’m trying, ‘Ria, shut up,” he snaps right back. They played dirty like this a lot. Sometimes, in the heat of it, she called him a two-timing playboy who wasn’t nothing but a cock for her to use. And he called her a dumb whore who’d let half of New York see her tits and had more guys in her holes than she had dough on her ass. His insults were rougher, and they always aimed low and hurt her feelings—but it got her off.

But sometimes it was more like this. With her cheek pressed against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall as he fucks her into oblivion—mostly quiet, rough, fast. Everything except gentle and clean and romantic. They have to be back out into the club soon, their friends will eventually come looking for them—and she’ll have his cum dribbling in her panties as she flirts with other guys in the bar, knowing that he’ll go home with Eliza but wind up in her bed.

He’ll watch her all night like he always does, and know she’ll welcome him back between her legs that morning too, begging for him to give her his cock and shut up about it while he’s at it.

Alex bucks his hips one last time and the orgasm washes over Maria simultaneously. He buries his face in her sweaty hair and murmurs her name over and over again as his seed spills inside of her.

“You’re golden, baby girl,” he whispers in her ear, when she’s done shuddering and clenching down on his cock. He releases her wrists and pulls out, making quick work of zipping himself back up in his jeans. Maria doesn’t move, and he takes advantage of that by slapping her ass playfully.

“Tell the wifey I said hi,” she whispers, before finding the courage to pull her jeans up and fix her blouse. She realizes that she’s wearing a top that Eliza had loaned her for the night, and it makes her skin prickle with disgust and eyes brim with tears. The guilt of what she’s doing—this affair she’s carrying on with Alex—always made her sick once she got her thrills. She knows she’s selfish for what she’s doing, knows more that if she told Eliza right now the girls gentle heart would eventually forgive her—no matter how much she doesn’t deserve it. Maria runs her fingers through her hair, trying to make it presentable without looking him in the eye. Alex slaps his hand against a sink.

“You leave her out of this, Maria,” he hisses. “You know that’s… that’s low. You know it.”

“I know it,” she agrees, redoing her belt. Suddenly he’s behind her, his lips on her neck. Maria shudders, fights the urge to drop to her knees and blow him. She’s not his whore—and she’d like to tell herself she never was. “I know where your priorities lie.”

“Ten minutes ago you were begging me to get you off. Now you want to fight? What the fuck is wrong with you, ‘Ria? Huh? What’s gotten into you, baby girl?” he tucks a couple of strands of hair behind her ear and nibbles on her earlobe. His hands are suddenly right under her breasts and she knows he’s trying to sway her into forgiving him… or at least, absolving him of any wrongdoing for the time being. She feels disgusting. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

There it is—that shudder. He body betrays her as she leans into his touch.

“I knew what I was when I walked into this, baby,” she turns, finally, to look at him. His eyes are beautiful and a gorgeous chestnut brown and she frowns. Dammit, she shouldn’t have looked—now her words are caught in her throat. She swallows hard. **“I wish I could hate you** but… I can't. I knew what this was when it began. I know what I am.”

And that’s the truth, isn’t it? Alexander isn’t just a quick, easy, good fuck anymore. He’d become something much different long ago, on those nights where he didn’t just treat her like a breathing sex toy.

Maria sighs. It isn’t worth it. The sex was good and when Alex was there, he was good too. When they weren’t fucking it was magical. She felt like some sort of twisted. fucked-up princess with a borrowed Prince Charming—he’d pull her into his lap and he’d hold her with his chin resting on her shoulder. Just sitting there, working or reading or watching TV with her in his lap… it made her feel like he cared more about her than her pussy. He’d run his fingers through her hair when they were in bed together, whispering sweet-nothings into the darkness of her bedroom. Sometimes he would pin her down and tickle her—‘cause he was the only that knew just where she was ticklish, that knew just how to touch her in that right way.

In these snippets, these moments of sweetness, she’d fallen in love with a man she couldn’t have. With a man that she’d stolen from somebody else. With a man that would never, ever see her in the same way. And that hurts.

“What’re you talking about?” Alexander asks dumbly, pulling away from her ever-so-slightly. She feels cold, and she knows that its not because she doesn’t have his warmth around her anymore.

“Nothing, Alex. Go home. Go home to your girlfriend, and kiss her, and make her happy. Okay?” she says quietly, feeling her heart break with each word. She knows this needs to stop—she couldn’t keep doing this to Eliza, they were best friends. And in some fucked up way, Maria loved her too. She _hated_ hurting her. The girl was too sweet, too kind for her own good. She knows if the tables were reversed—which they never would be, Eliza would never do something like this to someone else but especially not to the girl she cared so much for—her best friend would be groveling on hands and knees for forgiveness, would’ve ended the little tryst long ago.

And though she knows why she can’t do the same, it doesn’t make her feel any less awful.

“Don’t be like that,” Alex whines, seeming more like a petulant child in that moment. Maria rolls her eyes, fights the urge to kiss the pout forming on his lips away.

“Go home, Alexander,” she insists, before pushing past him and out of the nightclub bathroom. When she gets there, she doesn’t even have a moment to breathe because Aaron catches her arm in the little hallway that leads out of the restroom area, concern on his face.

“Maria, thank God! I was just looking for you. Theodosia was worried sick, she thought you’d gotten into some trouble or…—are you okay?” the man pauses when he catches the tears falling from her eyes. Maria startles at herself—she hadn’t noticed she’d been crying. “Maria?”

“I’m fine, Ronnie,” she deflects. He furrows his brow in concern, and then there seems to be a moment of enlightenment occurring within his brain—because his expression shifts into something more akin to fury, and he begins to start towards the bathroom.

“Is it Alex? God, I swear, what did he do to you? I’ll fuckin’ strangle ‘em, Maria. I swear to God I will. If he laid a finger on you—”

“Thanks, sweetie, but he didn’t… wait, how did you know it was Alex? How many more of you know?” she asks, panic rising and lodging next to the lump in her throat. If too many people found out, Alexander’s relationship to Eliza was in danger. She could handle being a mistress, and she could even handle never being able to have him, but she couldn’t handle Eliza finding out from someone who wasn’t either of them.

Aaron laughs, hand resting on her shoulder to assuage her.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell anyone else. And it’s just me, Thomas and James… I think. John is suspicious, but he thinks you two are exes that don’t want to tell anyone and I’ve been encouraging him to believe that. Now will you tell me what happened?” _We fucked in the bathroom, and he came inside of me and I remembered that I haven’t been on birth control for six months and that we can’t keep doing that shit and I’m just too tired and too in love to continue feeling so lonely and empty like this._

“We had a disagreement,” she says instead, waving her hand in dismissal. Behind her, she hears the bathroom door swing open, and she cringes at the thought of Aaron asking Alex directly about their exact relationship. She doesn’t know if she’d be able to handle the embarrassment of that fallout. “Now let’s go—I need some shots.”


	34. Have A Drink With Me (Martha/Peggy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy stops in for a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘If you’re good, I might do both.’
> 
> butch!Peggy is a MOOD + some good ol Marggy. Good shit.

Peggy Schuyler absentmindedly drums her fingertips against the perfectly polished counter of _The Red Rouge_ , nerves eating at her _and_ her bad habits. She’d already chewed the nails about as far down as she could get them—without causing herself physical pain—and drunk just enough liquid courage to make her feel warm and give her a buzz, but not get her drunk. So she’d taken to the drumming—which, in another situation, she herself would find extremely annoying.

Of course, the girl had every reason to be nervous. She’d just flown into town on leave from deployment for her older sister's wedding. It was already looking to be a shit storm, the entire affair—the boy Eliza was marrying had some run-ins with the law a few weeks before the day of, Peggy’s previous betrothed—the guy their Dad had tried to set her up with before she’d come out as a lesbian—had threatened to crash the ceremony, Peggy knew that Angelica was still madly in love with their sisters new groom, and she was a bridesmaid but had yet to find a date to accompany her on the night of romance. On top of that, these following two weeks would be her one and only chance to really get to know the guy her sister was marrying, and decide whether or not she truly wanted to hand off her Eliza to him—not that it would matter either way, ‘Liza never listened to her.

“Hey,” the bartender snaps, forcing Peggy’s attention to their face. The most noticeable thing she catches was that the woman had gorgeous green eyes and looked pissed enough to kill a man. “Stop that. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Good. Now I’m not the only one,” Peggy says reflexively, her smart tongue speaking before her brain can think. Its a habit, but now that the words are out, she has to stand by it. The bartender’s face sets into an ‘oh really’ expression and she leans against the bar. She can’t help it—her eyes float to her breasts, which seems to spill out of the tight black spaghetti strap she’s wearing. She eyes the outline of a dove tattooed on one, but then the woman snaps her fingers in front of Peggy’s face.

“Hey, my eyes are up here. You don’t want to annoy me, kid. I’ll have your ass thrown out of the bar.”

“Yes ma’am,” Peggy mutters sarcastically, miming tipping her hat. The woman—her nametag says ‘Martha’—gives her a satisfied smirk before going back to what she was doing—drying wet glasses that just came out of a silver pan of steaming water. “What’s your name?”

The bartender casts her an annoyed glance over her shoulder, upset that her work had been interrupted again. Peggy shrugs. “I got nothing better to do with my time. Nowhere to be. Making friends isn’t so bad, y’know.”

“Martha. Martha Manning. You?” she asks, reaching for another wet glass.

“Margaret Schuyler, but you can call me Peggy. Y’know, you’re the only chick in this bar. Rest of ‘em are a bunch of burly bikers and drunk old men. You sure you can have me thrown out? Looks like you’re the one that needs protection,” she jokes halfheartedly. Martha scoffs and sets the glasses down, goes to lean over the bar again. She looks around the small room—at the patrons there.

Peggy’s assessment wasn’t so far off the mark. The majority of the woman’s customers were scary looking bikers, ex-convicts that had served hard time in prison, or exhausted alcoholics that had put on a bit of a paunch from their drinking. Not only was she the only other woman around, but she wasn’t exactly muscled either. Tall, of course—but Peggy could hear her heels clicking against the wooden floors behind the bar. She had great tits, and a great ass but she didn’t look like she spent her days lifting hundred pound weights.

“Those guys? Harmless. Not axe murderers or anything,” she assures, seeming more apprehensive at the fact that Peggy thought they would hurt her than at the fact that they physically could, if they wanted to. Peggy shakes her head.

“Dude, you’re wearing tight clothing in a room full of men twice your size. I’m not worried about you losing a hand.” Martha raises both her eyebrows and gives the other girl an impressed, thankful smile.

“How chivalrous. You shouldn’t be worried about me at all,” she says, patting her bicep. She seems shocked at how strong the other girl is, but doesn’t comment. “You don’t know me.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But… I don’t know. My Mom used to tell me that every woman is someone’s daughter or sister or mother. I have two sisters, and I know I wouldn’t exactly be comfortable with them being alone in a bar. Or, maybe that’s the mother in me.”

“You have kids?” Martha asks. For a second, Peggy thinks there’s a hint of disappointment in her tone. But she turns and grabs another glass to dry, so she can’t properly read her expression. She’s probably wrong anyways—they weren’t flirting, the woman had no reason to be upset. “Girls?”

“Nah. I have a son,” she shrugs, reaching into a wallet to remove a picture of the young child. She’d adopted him sometime after her very first deployment—had found him abandoned at a bus stop and felt absolutely awful about it. When she was deployed, he stayed with her parents. “My baby, Stephen.”

“I have a daughter. Her name is Frances,” Martha offers. “She lives with her father during the school year—he’s got the money, and he’s only going to school, so he can look after her. She’s growing up right before my eyes, and so fast, too.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Peggy chuckles, raising her glass of mostly watered down whiskey. “My sister is getting married in two weeks. I’m walking her down the aisle, in place of our father—he’s sick. It’s so surreal just how quickly kids grow up. It feels as if yesterday, we were insisting that babies were grown. Like plants.”

Martha tosses her head back and laughs, her hair tickling her waistline as she does. Peggy laughs too—the memory still so vivid and fresh in her mind. Kneeling in the garden with her mother and sisters, watching as they planted the seeds and pouting because she wasn’t allowed to help. Eliza was babbling on about how her mother had put on so much needless weight carrying their brother John, how the baby was going to come from the ground _anyways_. Both Philip and Catherine Schuyler had looked at her with amusement and wonder in their eyes, joyous smiles painted on their faces.

“Frankie is still only four but,” she says, when the laughter recedes. “I don’t know what to do with myself now that she’s starting pre-kindergarten, and neither does her father. My sole purpose in life is to raise her. Once she grows up and gets a life of her own… I don’t know.”

“I guess I’m lucky,” Peggy sighs, nodding her head in thanks when Martha refills the glass. “Stevie is just a baby, he’s only about a year old. I don’t what I’ll do when he grows up, though, either. When I came back from that first leave after adopting him… and I was so fucked up by war that I couldn’t even hold my own child without thinking about battle… It didn’t help that my parents disowned me for awhile when I refused to marry this guy they set me up with ‘cause I like chicks. I was so depressed, I threw all my energy into self-destruction. Maybe, that’s just what I keep doing. Even after he grows up.”

“You could do something else though,” Martha shrugs, setting aside a glass to dry. She can tell she’s trying to appear nonchalant and bored, but underneath all of that she’s truly empathetic. “There’s always a path to redemption forking the path to destruction. Or at least, that’s what my husband used to say.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a smart man but the path of destruction comes with a car. The path to redemption is an uphill trek,” Peggy snorts, before feeling stupid about making that metaphor. Martha gives her a weird gaze for a few moments before someone at the end of the bar slaps their hand against the counter, demanding the bartender's attention.

By the time she serves the customer and returns to her, Peggy has polished off the rest of her glass and is pouring another from the bottle she bought.

“I shouldn’t be drinking like this,” she sighs, though taking another sip. “but... I have to face my ex-boyfriend in a few weeks. He’s still bitter over the break-up, even though I never signed up to be with him in the first place. Its not going to be pretty when he shows up at the wedding—which, I _know_ he will.”

Martha snorts. “If there’s anything I know about messy break-ups, meeting your ex is a good reason to get drunk and get laid.”

“Will you do one of those with me?” Peggy asks, offering her the bottle. There’s an underlying, more flirty invitation that goes unsaid. Martha smirks at her and takes the bottle.

**“If you’re good, I might do both.”**


	35. Baby, It's Cold Outside (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Hallmark moment and a Christmas song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person A cooking with the window open and singing a song that's supposed to be a duet. Person B, who's outside, hears them singing and begin singing along—filling in the parts of the duet that Person A skips.
> 
> this,,,, is going to be so sugary sweet it gives cavities I tell ya

Gilbert enjoyed the beginning of the fall, especially on the days when they were with their George. There was something about the autumn leaves, chilly weather and the surfacing of the Christmas holiday that seemed so _romantic_ to them. They enjoyed buying anything that began with ‘pumpkin spice’, taking advantages of their boyfriend’s sweater collection and cuddling up to the man while they watched the horror movie and Christmas specials on television. But most importantly, their favorite thing to do was bake holiday-themed desserts.

They especially loved to bake Christmas cookies—no matter how many times their roommate, John, continued to complain to them that _Halloween_ hadn’t even passed yet—and listen to Christmas-y tunes while doing so. They didn’t exactly know why, but the feeling of camaraderie and the Christmas spirit of giving made them feel so hopeful and warm and happy.

The best part—in France, Christmas celebrations usually lasted until February. Because of this, Lafayette got at least three months out of the year for nothing but holiday festivities. Three months of making delicious, adorable little gingerbread people that had strange resemblances to their best friends.

As their Pandora station plays cheerful Christmas music from their speaker, they dance around the kitchen—grabbing materials, mixing and coloring frosting for their gingerbread and snow people. They’re the only one active in the house for now—Alex had gone to lunch with Eliza for his day off, Hercules and Maria were napping together in his room, and John went on a joyride with Thomas—so they take advantage of the silence and sing their little heart out. The windows have all been opened—partially because the kitchen had quickly become hot with all the baking, but also because it was a lovely, if not chilly day out and they had wanted to feel the breeze through their home.

They’re rolling the dough for the snowmen sugar cookies when one of their favorite songs comes on and they let out a small, happy squeal.

“ _I really can’t stay,_ ” they sing, moving to mix the batter for a pumpkin pie. Wistfully, they wish someone else was around to sing the other part to the song—can’t help but think of how beautifully movie-perfect and romantic that would be. _“I’ve got to go away… this evening has been… so very nice.”_

The delightful melody of _Baby, It’s Cold Outside_ fills the kitchen, and paired with the sweet smell of pies, cakes and cookies baking—they almost feel like they’re in the midst of a Hallmark or Disney movie. Twirling around with a man of cookies to put in the oven, they continue the song.

 _“My mother will start to worry,”_ Lafayette says, humming the tune through the other part of the duet. _“My father will be placing the floor. So really, I’d better scurry… but maybe just a half drink more.”_

Unbeknownst to them, as they were so immersed in their task and the song, George had pulled into the driveway. He usually stayed a bit later at work—especially if he’d made an arrest that day and there was paperwork that needed to be done. However, today had been a particularly slow day in his precinct, and he had taken advantage of the break of activity to take off a bit earlier and surprise Lafayette.

He’s about to exit his car when he hears his partners angelic voice coming from towards the backyard. He pauses for a second to listen to what they’re singing, then breaks into a smile when he realizes that it’s a Christmas song. More importantly, it’s one of his favorites.

Closing the car door quietly, he locks his car before walking along the side of the house, through the gate that leads into the back garden. He can tell that Lafayette had been out there earlier but had abandoned it in favor of whatever they were doing in the kitchen because their gardening gloves have been left out. Approaching one of the opened kitchen windows, George can see that they’re baking. The delicious smells of varying desserts float out into the air through the open window, and his mouth almost salivates with the thought of enjoying one of Laf’s delicious gingerbread men.

“— _wish I knew how,_ ” their voice continues, floating out into the garden through the window. They haven’t noticed him yet because their back is turned —they’re at the kitchen’s island, rolling dough out into sheets perfect for pumpkin shaped cookies to give to the trick-or-treaters later that week. “ _... to break this spell.”_

 _“I ought to say, ‘no, no, no sir,’”_ George grins deciding that he would surprise them another way. Clearing his throat, he continues the song with the other part of the duet.

 _“Mind if I move in closer?”_ Lafayette whips around at this, eyes widened with surprise at George’s voice. At first, it seems as though he’d almost given them a heart attack—which, admittedly, standing outside the kitchen window and watching his partner would be significantly more creepy if the circumstances weren’t considered—but then their eyes soften, and they approach the window. George leans against the sill, and they grip the edges of it.

 _“At least I'm gonna say that I tried,”_ they continue, a smile gracing their lips.

_“What's the sense in hurtin' my pride?”_

_“I really can't stay…”_

_“Baby don't hold out.”_

_“Baby it's_ _—”_ the two are meaning to full sit there and just sing to each other, both lost in the other’s eyes. However they’re crudely interrupted by Alexander walking over to the window and slamming it shut. George jumps at the action and continues through the garden to enter the house through the backdoor to see what had caused the sudden and violent reaction. When he steps into the house, he can hear Alex bitching about how ‘cliche’ and ‘movie-perfect’ the two of them acted, and Lafayette laughing at the obvious disgust on their best friend’s face.

“I think it was cute,” Eliza says, having draped her coat on the back of a dining room chair. “Besides, Alexander, you wouldn’t have walked in on the two of them being mushy if you hadn’t pissed off my Dad so much he kicked you out for the night.”

“Your Dad tried to arrange your sister in a marriage! That’s not fucking creepy to you?!”

George rolls his eyes at the young detectives outrage, approaching Lafayette to wrap an arm around their waist. They lean into him, standing up on the tips of their toes to give him a small, chaste but sweet kiss. When the two of them pull away, Alex is groaning about them being ‘mushy’ again and Eliza has her camera out—having snapped a Polaroid of the kiss.

“You two are so cute,” Eliza gushes, pulling the Polaroid from her camera and flicking the photo a bit before handing it to Laf. They smile at her gratefully and pocket the photo—probably to hang up on their wall or be put into a photo album for later.

“We’re cute, too! Probably cuter,” Alexander exclaims, never one to be one-upped. Eliza rolls her eyes at the same time that George does.

And Lafayette decides that the Christmas season truly was their favorite.


	36. All That Matters (Alex & John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Laurens really didn’t think he’d be able to do this without his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Why wasn't I invited to your wedding?’
> 
> thaurens,,,, is,,,, god ok bye

When Thomas Jefferson had gotten down on one knee in the center of Central Park and proposed in a very characteristically dramatic proclamation of love, John had been thinking a million and one things a minute. How much he loved that man, how much he wanted to say ‘yes’, how excited he was that they would be spending the rest of their lives with each other.

How sad he was that his childhood best friend wouldn’t be there to witness the wedding.

See, John and Alex had had a falling out right before Laurens began to date Thomas—actually, the argument had been the sole reason John had decided to ask the other man out in the _first place_. It was no well-kept secret that Hamilton and Jefferson had always loathed each other to the very core—ever since their college years, everything in their lives had been a cutthroat competition. They had differing opinions on nearly everything there was to be opinionated about—seriously, from toothpaste brands to laws on gun control—and there was a new Twitter argument between the two of them every other day. Obviously, this quickly became a problem when John began sleeping around with Thomas—especially since he’d _previously_ been sleeping around with Alex.

He had always made sure that Alex knew that what the two of them had was temporary, but apparently Alexander only liked things being temporary when he was the one getting to move on. A long, very scarring story cut short? Alexander had sat his best friend down and forced John to choose between himself and Thomas. And despite the two of them being childhood friends, John had fallen desperately in love with Jefferson. There was no way he was giving up his soulmate because his friend couldn’t stop being childish for just a single moment.

He’d made his answer very clear, and carefully dictated his reasoning behind his choice. They still hadn’t spoken in two and a half years.

Briefly, while making the wedding invitations and filling out the guest list, John had considered inviting Alex. Afterall, he was inviting the other man’s ex-sisters-in-law _and_ his ex-wife. In fact, most—if not all—of their mutual friends were supposed to be in attendance. For the splittest moment, he’d thought about how much he’d missed Alexander—had even wondered what they would be talking about should Alex be the one helping him with his wedding and not Thomas’ best friend, James. However, he had decided against having his ex-best-friend there. Even if Alex _did_ get out of his little pissy temper-tantrum, John didn’t want to risk what was supposed to be the best night of his life being tainted by drama involving his husband.

So, he scribbled someone else's name into the invitation card and envelopes it. And, surprisingly, it had been the last time he really thought of Alex in the context of the wedding.

However, on the day of, that changes very quickly.

John stares at himself in the mirror, his head cocked slightly to the side. He examines himself from head-to-toe—from the perfectly shined shoes to the expensive creased black slacks and crisp white button-up and finally the stupid black fucking bow that just wouldn’t sit at all _straight_. With a frustrated growl, he attempts to straighten out his bow for the umpteenth time and tilts his head to the other side. He snarls at the damn thing and readjusts it before repeating the process all over again.

Okay, maybe it _wasn’t_ just the bow pissing him off. Maybe he was nervous and _that_ was why he was so frustrated. No, he was _definitely_ nervous—no ‘maybe’ about it. He wouldn’t admit it to a soul, but here, alone in his dressing room, he was able to admit—at least to himself—that he was worried. More than that, he was _scared_. After all, this was his entire future staring back at him—marriage was a giant step, a huge commitment… what if he and Thomas weren’t ready for it? What if they got divorced? Even worse, what if they had to get an annulment?

It was during these moments that he always missed Alexander the most. Despite being unreasonable most of the time, when he needed him to be, Alex had always been the voice of reason. He’d always managed to talk his best friend down from the ledge. They had done it for each other countless times over the years. John had protected Alexander from his temper, and Alex had protected John from his impulsiveness.

“It would probably straighten out if you kept your _head_ straight, jackass,” a warm voice says from behind him, just as he’s about to thrown in the towel and take the bowtie off. John whips around at the familiarity of the voice to find the very man he’d been silently wishing for, leaning in the doorway with an amused smirk. He gapes like a fish for a seconds, but Alexander just laughs and crosses over to his best friend to perfect the bow tie. “You look fine, Jack.”

Despite himself, John finds his eyes watering. It’s been so long since Alex had called him ‘Jack’. Hell, it’s been so long since he’s talked to Alexander at all. It quickly becomes obvious that a lot had changed in the two and half years they’d been apart—as cliche as it sounded, Alexander looked… different. Happier, even. There was that youthful mischievous glint in his eyes, and he’s grown a goatee.

“Alex,” John exhales, embracing the other man tightly. Alex hugs back, just as—if not more—warmly and passionately, clapping the taller of the two on the back a few times. “Man, it’s… been so long. You’ve got no idea how much I missed you. How did you—?”

“Eliza,” Alex admits, pulling away from the hug. There’s a missed beat, and a thick tension settles over the room. John swallows thickly, knowing what question was coming next. If he was honest, he didn’t want to have to answer it. “John, **why wasn’t I invited to your wedding?”**

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t think you wanted to come. I mean, you’re aware of who I’m marrying, right?”

“No, I’m not. Who?” Alex asks, a dumbfounded look falling over his expression. John’s eyes widen in surprise, and he opens and closes his mouth—unsure of where to go from there. But then Alexander’s face breaks into a smile and he laughs. “Of course. I know you’re marrying Jefferson, and I know I hate the guy but… you’re my best friend, John. No matter how long of a fight we have, I always want to be there by your side for things like this. You should’ve known better.”

“I… I’m surprised to be saying this, Alex, but you’re right,” John admits, feeling a little sheepish and childish as he does. He hadn’t known that Alex had matured this much—but when he thinks of it, two and a half years was a long time. A lot had happened in that much time—as evidenced by the fact that he and Thomas had only been beginning their relationship when John had fallen out with Alex, and now he was marrying him. Though, to be fair, the Alexander he knew was far more petty than he let on. “Are you sure this isn’t some ploy to assassinate my husband?”

Alex shrugs, giving a goofy smile. “I promise. Hell, I don’t need to assassinate Thomas. The man does it to himself every time he opens his mouth.”

John laughs again, and when he does he realizes he’s still crying. Rolling his eyes at himself, he quickly swipes at the tears. 

“Wow. I marry the love of my life and get my best friend back in one day. I don’t think my mental can handle this emotional rollercoaster.”

“Well, don’t have a breakdown yet. We still gotta get you married. Thomas is at the altar, and let me tell you—he’s never looked sillier until now. A magenta, velvet suit, John? You allowed that?” Alex asks, and it feels like old times. It feels like they’re back to normal. And of course, John isn’t at all naive. He knows in the future, he and Alex will have to talk things out. He knows that things just became far more complicated than he was used to. He knows that Thomas will be fuming, knows that Alexander will be fuming at the fact that Thomas is fuming, _knows…_

Knows, all of this, but doesn’t care.

Because he was going to marry the love of his life. And he had his best friend back. And that’s all that matters.


	37. For You, Only (George/Gilbert) [[NSFW]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George wasn’t the only one who liked to claim what was his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person B comes home smelling like another woman’s perfume, so Person A makes sure this ‘other woman’ will know that Person B is taken.

Gilbert looks up from their spot where they’d been reading on the couch when they notice the wooden front door swing open, eyes brightening with excitement as their fiance steps into the house. Immediately their expression changes entirely─they hadn’t seen him all day, and with how touch-starved they’d been lately, they were practically over the moon that he was finally home. Usually, George woke them up to kiss them goodbye before leaving to work in the morning─however, he’d been running late that morning so he hadn’t done so.

“Hey baby,” they call, bookmarking their book and pushing off the couch. It’s not until they’ve come closer that they realize just how positively exhausted George looked─it quickly becomes obvious that it’d been a long day for their lover. “How was work?”

“I wasn’t at work today,” he sighs, running a hand over his face. “I was working on mayoral election speeches with my PR agent.”

“I thought I was your PR agent,” they ask, confusion gracing their features. George shrugs, lifts a lid on one of the simmering pots on the stove─Thomas and Eliza had begun cooking dinner, but they’d gone out for more ingredients. He sniffs the food there before wrinkling his nose and setting the lid back down.

“Not _officially_. You’re… behind the scenes, if I may─you do the stuff others aren’t equipped to do, and you know the stuff others aren’t equipped to know. I have an actual _hired_ agent,” he says around a mouthful of pasta. “Y’know. ‘Cause my PR agent being a nonbinary crossdresser is kind of bad─like _really_ bad. New York politics, and all. It’s nothing personal, baby, it’s just─"

“Oh, no, I get it─politics is awful, blah, blah, blah,” Gilbert sighs, though they can’t help but feel a little bit like an inconvenience. They knew that by proposing to them, George had given the opposition something to put under the microscope. If he associated with the likes of _them_ , what kind of morals could he _possibly_ have? People like Gilbert─gender-binary-defying rebels who did stints in jail for protests─ _did not_ make for suitable Mayor’s partners. But they know that George loves them, and once all this shit is over─whether he wins or not─things can go back to normal between them. They’d just much rather he won.

They wrap their arms around his neck and lean in to give him their first kiss of the day, but their nose catches a traitorous scent lingering on him─or rather, on his _collar_. A women’s perfume, and nothing that _they_ use either. Lafayette’s perfumes are all fruity and sweet─more body spritz, less cologne. They’d been around the Schuyler girls so long, they’d gotten accustomed to that smell in their perfumes. This is heavy, thick─smells more like a perfume than a body spray. Whoever wore this was someone who was a proper, prim lady. They recoil at the scent, and Washington frowns when he doesn’t receive the kiss he was eagerly expecting.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, examining the scowl on their lips and the anger in their eyes. “What’d I do?”

“Whose perfume is that?” they ask slowly, their warm tone faded into a cold one. Now it’s George’s turn to recoil─he visibly flinches at their tone. His hands resting on their waist, he holds them at arm’s length and stares at them with a blank, confused expression. “Don’t give me that look─ _goddamnit_ , George, whose fucking perfume is that?!”

Their voice chokes up and he can tell they’re going to cry─and if they’re going to cry, they’ll refuse to do it in front of him. Gilbert attempts to pull away from him, but George pulls them back to his chest─despite the struggle it is to do so. They beat their fists─which are surprisingly strong for someone who didn’t exactly spend all their time lifting weights─against his chest and pushes at his arms, but he’s stronger than them and he holds them in place.

“Whoa, whoa, _stop_ it! Where is this coming from?” he asks, though once the words out of his mouth it completely dawns on him. Lafayette didn’t exactly have a perfect, idyllic track record when it came to their past relationships. They liked to call it their ‘History of Wrong Guys’. A lot of them had been abusive, had fetishized them or had just been incapable of being faithful. When George had met them, they were so desperate for just the slightest bit of affection that didn’t come coupled with some form of abuse, it had taken _months_ for them to genuinely believe him when he told them he loved them.

It wasn’t that far-fetched for Lafayette to get the wrong idea, especially considering that to their knowledge, there were no other women in George’s life.

“It’s on your fucking collar!” Lafayette snaps, tears uncontrollably spilling from their eyes. “What fucking business does a woman have fucking hugging you? Answer that, you bastard! Or putting her fucking wrists or neck anywhere near your goddamn collar?”

Sighing reluctantly, George blinks tiredly─wanting nothing more than to just put this behind and go to bed. He hadn’t wanted to tell Lafayette about the fact that his new, _female_ PR Agent had a crush on him, because he knew they would react poorly─his partner was extremely jealous, and he didn’t want to give them _any_ reason not to trust him. In their last relationship, their boyfriend had a whole new life across the ocean─they had every right to be a little jealous in this one, he had to admit. But he really did wish they’d learn to trust him a little bit more.

“My new intern, Kitty? She just likes me a bit. She’s a tad… _friendly_. I told her I was engaged but she’s persistent. It’s nothing I can’t handle, baby. I’m not going to betray you─I love you and _only_ you. Else I wouldn’t have proposed to you,” he assures, wiping their tears away with his thumbs. His arms encircle their waist and their hands eventually flatten against his chest, their muscles going lax. George breathes a sigh of relief.

“Fine,” they say, their tone still harsh, before burying their nails into the lapels of his collar and pulling him down for a rough kiss. It’s nothing like their usual kisses─it’s messy with nothing but teeth, and it takes him entirely by surprise. The kiss bruises, and Lafayette pushes him against the counter opposing the stove as they sloppily make out like horny teenagers. George suddenly doesn’t feel so tired─he happily allows them to take the lead, as it seems like that’s what they want to do.

Gilbert pulls away from the kiss breathing hard with lips bruised, and George knows he sports a similar picture. Their hands go to the hem of their shirt─which, George notices is one of his─and they pull the cloth over their head, revealing the lacy hot pink material beneath. Both of his eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the cute little bralette, but his partner just gives a smug grin as they discard the cloth to the kitchen floor and returns to kissing him.

“Wait,” he says, breaking away before they get carried away. He’s breathing hard when he speaks. “What’re you doing?”

“Making sure that bitch knows to back down,” they retort, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And next time she wants to get so friendly with my man, she can have a clear reminder of why she doesn’t want to risk it.”

Sometimes George forgets that they weren’t always the _mostly_ quiet artist he had fallen in love with. They had dated every spectrum of boy, experienced every spectrum of life they could. And of course, they had developed their own wild streak over the years. They’d settled down since they’d met George, but he often forgot that the first time he met them, they were dancing in some shady nightclub. Sometimes he didn’t forget─they made it hard to when they got dressed, since they never _weren’t_ wearing something leather or lace─and he got aroused thinking about it. Now was one of those times.

“Okay─what about your roommates?”

“What about them?” they ask, their tone exasperated.

“Won’t someone… hear? Or… y’know… walk in?” George asks nervously. He still was awkward around their younger friends─especially considering he was nearly double everyone’s age. It didn’t help that Lafayette had so many roommates that they were very rarely ever alone in their home─or rather, they had three roommates whose significant others had all made themselves comfortable at the house.

The last thing he needed was for one of them to walk in and see him and their best friend having sex. It would just make things awkward─for all parties involved. But Gilbert rolls their eyes, switches them so that _their_ back is against the counter and begins working out of their extremely short shorts.

“Guess we better hurry before someone comes in then,” they grin, kicking their shorts aside. George is temporarily distracted by the matching hot pink lace panties, but then his eyes find theirs again. He has to admit─there’s something about the risk of getting caught that has him standing at attention.

George obeys them, allowing his partner to pull him over by his tie. They tug the tie off and toss it to the kitchen floor with their top, sending his suit jacket and button-up following. He crashes his mouth back onto theirs and hoists their onto the counter by their waist before planting his hands firmly on either side of their thighs. Gilbert tears their mouth away from his and slides it down his neck─wetly suckling on the creamy caramel flesh there. Meanwhile, their hands work at his belt buckle─they give a triumphant ‘ha!’ when the belt joins the rest of their clothes on the kitchen tiles. Eventually their nimble fingers slide his zipper down and push his pants open enough to get to his boxers.

“You’re so hard for me, Daddy,” they whisper sultrily in his ear before biting gently at his earlobe. One of their hands palm his thick shaft through his boxers, and their other hand has slipped into their own panties─stroking themselves. George bites his lip at the sight─can feel himself stiffen considerably. Now that they’ve got him all riled up, he’s excited to just get to the best part of it.

“I’m gonna fuck you senseless, princess,” he whispers back. Lafayette’s eyes twinkle as they scoot closer to the edge of the counter and pull him out of his boxers. Their hands pump his cock gently as they slide their panties down to their ankles. Adjusting so that George has unlimited access to their hole, they shudder when their fiance lewdly spits on it before pushing his thumb in.

A single whine of both pleasure and unsatisfaction echoes throughout the kitchen, transforming into a moan when George switches his thumb out in favor of two fingers. The older man pistons his fingers in and out of their hole, scissoring to stretch their ass enough for comfort. Briefly, he regrets not making the dash up the stairs for some lube─but with how nicely Lafayette is opening up for him, he decides that they won’t need it.

Desperately eager to feel him inside of them, Lafayette grabs for his cock again─this time guiding it towards their hole. George gets the message loud and clear, gripping their hips and pulling them closer to him, and they wince just slightly when he begins to slide in.

Eventually, he’s bottomed out, and his nails are digging into their flesh─so much so, that he can feel a few drops of blood slowly wet his fingertips. But he isn’t the only one leaving marks─Gil has already set to their mission. Their teeth scrape along the flesh on his neck, occasionally stopping to suckle or bite. He can feel the bruises beginning to form there─knows they’re picking spots that will peek out of all his collars. He smirks at their childish, possessive antics.

George slowly begins thrusting─his hips rocking back and forth rather gently to adjust his partner to the feeling. As soon as Lafayette is pushing down, practically begging for more, he obliges them and pushes into them with more force and speed. It wasn’t often that he and Gil had rough sex─mostly because he didn’t like the idea of hurting them, but also because there wasn’t a time they’d been together that he didn’t want to spend all day worshipping their body. So he tries to make it as good for them as possible─taking one hand and burying it into the locks of their curly hair. He tugs at their hair─at first gently to test the waters, and then when they seem to enjoy that, harder. More _painful_.

He knows, because in response their teeth sink into his shoulder and their nails drag down his shoulder blades. He groans at the sting of pain, and is surprised when it adds to his arousal. The burning in his shoulders only makes him hornier, and he thrusts harder and faster into his lover. What had been originally muffled quiet whimpers become loud moans of pleasure, and Lafayette involuntarily tosses their head back.

“ _Fuck…_ right there… like that, daddy…” they pant, bucking their hips to meet his. George yanks at their hair again and the noises coming out of their mouth become pornographic─their initial mission long abandoned, although he knows they’d more than accomplished their task. Their nails dig into his shoulders and like he had done to them, begin to draw blood eventually. Instead of being repulsed by it however, Lafayette licks the small droplets of blood from their fingers tantalizingly and George grunts at the sight.

“Goddamnit…” he groans, feeling his climax slowly starting to build. Lafayette returns to their task of marking him up─biting down from right below his chin and suckling at the spot above his Adam’s apple. After each nip, they swirl their tongue over the mark. George doesn’t need to tell them how good it feels─he responds by picking up his pace and force, and arching his hips upward. Apparently he hits a particular spot when he arches upward, because they tear their mouth away from him with a loud cry of pleasure─loud enough to wake the neighborhood.

“Fuck!” Gil pants afterward, pupils blown with ecstasy. “Do… do that again, Daddy. _Please_.”

George does as told─thrusting forcefully and arching upward at the same time. He must hit that spot again, because Gilbert’s eyes flutter and they bring their bottom lip between their teeth. Smirking to himself, George attempts to hit this spot with each thrust─and it doesn’t take long to have his partner shuddering with their orgasm.

Their nails scrape down his back, their eyes roll back in her head, and their mouth opens in a loud moan of his name as they cum all over their lower stomach and some of George’s, too. George briefly slows down at the sight, drinking it all in─how beautiful they are. They look so damn sexy right there, and he wishes he could reach his phone to snap a photo. Instead he goes about remembering every detail of the image as he fucks them slowly through their orgasm.

When Gil comes down, they’re breathing hard and grinning like a cheshire cat who got the cream. George stops briefly, tucks a strand of dark hair behind their ear and tilts his head in question.

“That was fucking _amazing_ ,” they whisper, voice hoarse from screaming. George feels a surge of pride at how well-fucked they look. “Now come on, baby─your turn.”

They lean in to kiss him and he kisses them hard─his hand coming up to cup the side of their head as he does. Their sweaty strands of hair rest against his fingers as he thrusts his way to climax. It’s not far away from theirs─it just takes a little extra help from his partner. Lafayette reaches between them and massages his balls─that sounds so lewd to his ears, and he knows he’ll never be able to say it aloud─to help him reach bliss. Not once does their kiss break as they do, and he comes buried to the hilt inside of his lover.

He groans into their mouth, and they swallow the sound with another filthy kiss. Arms draping lazily around their neck, pulling their man even closer. In these moments, it almost feels as if they couldn’t possibly get close enough.

George breaks the kiss panting, and he slumps tiredly against them after pulling out. He leaves a trail of sticky in his wake, and Lafayette is sure to kick up a fuss about it.

“Ugh, I hate that squishy wet feeling,” they whine, their fingers playing idly with his hands. George watches them lazily, rolling his eyes─they could protest all they wanted, but he knew they secretly loved it when they claimed them like _that_.

Distractedly, their eyes fall to inspect their fiance’s skin. Already purpling marks line his neck and there are even some along the edge of his chin. His back is marked with scratches─deep ones, that have formed welts that they wince at─and his shoulders are still bleeding a bit. For the most part, he’s been marked pretty good. His PR agent should definitely get the message.

“I think I did a good job,” they whisper, tracing a bruise at the hollow of his throat. George watches their expression─how they manage to look both mesmerized at their work, _and_ smug, as they trace each hickey with the very tip of their nail. “Mine.”

“Yours, baby,” he agrees, finally pulling away from them to pick up their clothes. “For you, only.”

Lafayette jumps from the counter to pull up their panties, though they keep looking at him with those lazy bedroom eyes─the ones that scream a message that George recieves loud and clear.

“On second thought, I don’t think I’m entirely done,” they whisper sultrily. “I think you need some more.”

Lafayette grins at him as they make their way towards the stairway that led to their bedroom─their finger crooking in the beckoning motion, their eyes gleaming with mischief. He watches them walk away for a few minutes before shaking his head─though a smile decorates his own face.

 _They will be the absolute end of me_ , he thinks in exhaustion before following the temptation of danger eagerly.


	38. Safety (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The zombie apocalypse seemed like the worst thing that could happen, but it wasn’t all bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I just want to protect you.”
> 
> based on the video game State of Decay 2, but instead of a little camp thing I decided it would be cooler if it were a complex

“Alright, people,” Washington’s voice rings out, loud and sharp over the hum of the compound activity going on outside. It was a late Summer evening, and although the sun was still high in the sky─blistering down on the heads of everyone around them─the clock definitely betrayed it. It easily looked to be around noon, but in two hours, they’d close the gates to the militarized apartment complex and the Field team would set out for the night. They recovered survivors, supplies and weapons during the evening time─preferred it against the broad daylight, when most of the infected were particularly ravenous or the cover of nighttime, when raiders ran the most rampant. Things quieted down during the evening time,. _Almost time_ , the older man thinks, a single hand shielding his eyes from the blazing sun. No matter how many years he’d spent doing this since the original outbreak, or how hard he tried to push it to the back of his mind, supply runs would always make him nervous. His well-trained Field crew could easily become one of those mindless, flesh-eating monsters. “Let’s get inside. We don’t want any civilians out when we open the gates.”

Most of the people that had taken up in the complex were just normal people. Most of the people that George and his field crew had recovered had jobs inside the complex─gardening, cooking, inventory, etcetera─but it was only a handful of people that had been outside the gates since the outbreak, and all of them had been personally trained by George himself. He didn’t see the need to put civilians at risk, doing supply runs, when he could prepare a few trusted associates to do it.

Due to this, George was very tentative about who was around when he opened the reinforced gates. He didn’t like anyone that wasn’t at least somewhat trained in defense to be around, should a raider or an infected manage to get past the defensive line set up outside the gates. He made sure that civilians were safe at all times─it was his biggest rule. The only one he had that had a no tolerance for being broken.

Except… there were a handful of exceptions.

He’s surprised, really when he’s ambushed by his lover─it was weird, to think in a world where people were cannibalizing each other, that he had found romance─attacking him with a suffocating hug. See, George had a special rule about members of the Field Team. He wasn’t a naive man─he was very well acquainted with the dangers of what went on outside those walls. When they went out on supply runs, there was a good chance that either a raider or an infected could take their lives. And despite his team being a bunch of very well-trained professionals, they had hearts. They’d had families, and romances long before the outbreak. And this family cared greatly for them.

Washington never wanted to have the opportunity to say he’d denied someone of seeing their loved one just hours before said loved one had been killed.

So, he allowed certain amount of family members to be out when the gates opened. Of course, his partner─boyfriend just sounded so juvenile, and didn’t fit their preference anyways─took advantage of this established rule and was around him until just seconds before they pulled out of the compound to go on the run.

Arms encircling Gilbert’s frame, George allows the facade of the hardened military commando to fade away as he presses a kiss against their cheek. It feels nice, he must admit, to be loved. He’d spent so many years alone until the Outbreak. He’d let his military career and then later, his work in law, take over his life. Had never stopped and made any plans for a private life. But afterwards, when he’d been at Site Zero and had found the kid─terrified, shaking and locked in a medicine room─things had changed. Gil had been a resident studying to be a surgeon when Patient 04728 had managed to escape and infect many of the hospital’s patients, and had originally proven to be an asset to a group of people that hadn’t had a medic yet. But all that time spent in a truck alone with Gilbert until they found a place to settle permanently had sparked something in what George thought was a long defunct heart. He found it sad that it took the country he’d fought so hard for going to shit for him to stop and think of himself.

It had been four years since they’d met at the site of the outbreak, and Washington isn’t sure if he’d have made it through this long without them.

“I hate this time of week,” Gil whines, when they’ve released him from the hug. They’re a few feet shorter than him, and it’s cute how they stand on their tiptoes to keep their arms wrapped around his neck. “What are you guys going for again?”

“Food and munitions. James received intel about an abandoned armory a few cities over in an overrun city. Raiders and scavengers have made attempts before, but it’s surrounded by what was previously a military base. And you know what that means.”

Gilbert did. It meant that the Field Team would be greeted with not only a city full of infected, but a city within that city of infected. That was far too many zombies to possibly take on without the proper equipment. It could mean more weapons, which could also mean expanding how many people were on the Field Team, but it could also be certain death.

“I hate when you go on long runs.”

“It’ll just be a week and a half. Just hold out for a week and a half. While I’m out, I’ll see if I can find you a new color of ribbon,” George says, referring to the ribbon that Lafayette wore around their neck. It had started out as a joke─using one of the purple ribbons that Gil used to tie up their hair and tying it in a bow around their neck. Washington had said it made them look like a present, tied up just for him. After that, it had become a sort of tradition. If he found a new color ribbon that Laf didn’t yet have while they were scavenging stores or homes, he’d bring it home to them. And every morning, before Gil went to work in the infirmary and George went to work with his Field Team─whether that be training, working on a run, or gathering intel about what the compound needed and how they could acquire it─Washington would tie a ribbon around their neck.

They wore it pridefully, along with his old dog tags. A small, little luxury of a gift that George could give them in a world where they encouraged people not to keep more than they could carry should they have to evacuate the compound.

“I don’t have maroon yet,” Lafayette reminds him─though, they already know that George kept track of all the colors they did or didn’t have. Sometimes it seemed it was more important to him than it was to them. “or white. I think white would look nice with my work scrubs, don’t you?”

“Anything would look nice on you,” Washington mutters, trying to prevent his team─who were all chatting idly with their own loved ones while their truck was loaded up with food and supplies they’d need for the next week and a half─from hearing. The teasing that he’d receive if they did would be positively unbearable. “I’ll look for maroon, but I wanted to get you a gray to match your civilian clothes.”

“Speaking of civilians, do you want to offer any explanation on why you made Eliza Schuyler your Field Medic and not me?” they ask, arms crossing over their chest. He had known this was coming, as word would’ve travelled unbelievably fast. There was a small amount of medically trained people working in the infirmary, and when his Lieutenant had made it known they would need a medic onsite for long runs, he had a select few to choose from. Lafayette had been the closest to becoming an actual doctor before the outbreak─just been a few months from achieving his surgical degree. However, George knew that he couldn’t have Laf in the field.

Not only was it a conflict of interest─he knows himself, and knows that if it came between him saving the rest of his crew or him saving Lafayette, he would choose them time and time again─but he didn’t think he could stand them being in the field. Being in the line of danger at all times.

“It’s nothing personal, m’love,” he begins, but now Gil is crossing their arms and there’s an expectant look on their face. “I have to act in the best interest of the entire Team.”

“Then why didn't you pick me? I am the most qualified in this compound. You know that. Should anything happen out there, I’d rather my knowledge over hers.”

“To be fair, she was studying to be a doctor, too. She wasn’t yet a resident, but she was damn close. You can’t dismiss her qualifications, you can’t pretend she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” George says, using his ‘commander voice’. This calms Gil considerably, as they do look a little embarrassed to have been rude about Eliza’s competence. “Finally, Eliza has no relationship ties to anyone on the team. As of now. The second that a relationship between her and a member of the Field Team is confirmed, you know she’s off the team. I can’t put anyone on the Field Team that I may consider more favorable than the other members.”

“But, George─”

“Gil, please. **I just want to protect you.”** George gives them a withering look, not wanting to continue the conversation any further.

The words he spoke were true─it wasn't about competency or technicalities about playing favorites. He didn't know how to use his words to say it, and maybe he didn't want to _admit_ it, but he didn't know what he'd do with himself should any harm come to his lover. They were the light at the end of tunnel, his reason to keep soldiering through every bleak day. The United States had been completely quarantined, for every person that he managed to save, five more died, and he was forced to willingly put himself in the line of danger nearly every day. Just to save people who were more than likely to be doomed anyways.

All of these things had taken quite the toll on him, but Lafayette… they taught him how to see the rainbow after a day of rain. They showed him that even though it felt like the world was over, they didn’t have to mope around about their predicaments. They painted pictures of evacuations and rescues sure to come, showed him that it was possible to laugh through the dark times.

He loved them. More than he would ever have the guts to admit aloud.

Seemingly sensing George’s disposition, Lafayette settles back on the heels─growing quiet, the argument squashed. Or at least, for now.

“This isn’t fair,” they whisper, hand coming up to gently brush against his cheek and pout forming on their lips. George brings his hand up to meet theirs, gripping it like it’s a lifeline. “I want to protect you, too.”

“You know how you can protect me? Stay here, where you can be safe.”

“Washington! Gates are opening, time to roll out!” Mulligan’s voice calls, interrupting their little moment. Though still despondent about not being on the Field Team, they seem to be cheered up a little. After rising to the tips of their toes to plant another sweet kiss on George’s lips, they gently remove the ribbon from around their neck and offer it up to him.

“For good luck. Come home to me alive, you understand? I’ll kill you if you die out there.” they say seriously, tying the ribbon around his wrist. George gives a bark of laughter, and though the phrase is funny, he knows there’s a serious connotation there. “I love you. Be safe.”

“I will. For you.”


	39. Bathroom Chronicles (James & Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting in the bathroom isn’t exactly an ideal way to make friends, but there have been weirder things to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Why are you hiding in the bathroom?" "Why are you reading in the bathroom?" "Touché.”
> 
> a little bit of Jeffmads platonic. they’re such a weird match but ilovethemsomuch

Truly, Thomas needed to learn to stop harassing Alexander─especially when he was under the stress of both Hell Week _and_ Finals Week. During their day, their teachers were beating reviews of the material into their brains in hopes that at least the majority of their students would pass onto the next year, and during the evening their Director was hounding their asses about being off book and learning their blocking by heart. Of course, Alexander had gotten the lovely role of Stage Manager that year─which meant maintaining his 4.6 GPA and corralling their rowdy Drama Club had left him sleep-deprived and snippy. For some reason, these were the moments that Thomas found the most hilarious to mess with him.

After he’d pushed too far however, Alexander had begun to give chase through the theatre─shouting threats of ‘I’m gonna kill you, Jefferson’ and ‘You better run fast, asshole!’. And Thomas knew that if the small, angry teenager caught up to him? Well, let’s just leave it at the fact that his ‘threats’ were _more like_ thinly veiled promises.

In desperate need to shake himself of the livid Alexander Hamilton, he skids into the boys bathroom and slams the door closed behind him─resting his weight against the door. Briefly, there’s a commotion in the hallway─the sound of Alexander’s sneakers pounding past the door, followed by their fellow cast members and tech staff eager to film the eventual throwdown. But then, deafening silence. Peaceful, safe, silence.

Or at least, until Thomas focuses himself on something other than what’s going on outside the door and is nearly given a heart attack by the sight of a younger, dark-skinned boy sitting on the floor by the door, staring at him with what could only be described as the driest expression Jefferson had ever seen on a human beings face.

“Uh… hi?”

 **“Why are you hidin’ in the bathroom?”** the boy asks, head cocked to the side. Thomas notices that his voice is fairly higher pitched with a light country twang─considers giving him grief about it before he decides he doesn’t need to make anymore enemies. Instead, Jefferson gives a look around the bathroom─trying to catch his breath as he thinks of a response that doesn’t make him sound too much like a dick. After all, what he did to Alexander _was_ kind of fucked up.

He finds his answer when he spots a half-finished _Pride & Prejudice _ resting in the young boys’ lap. The book is weathered and yellowed, as though its been read a hundred times over.

 **“Why are you readin’ in the bathroom?”** he shoots back, eyebrow arched. The boy seems to consider this, before shrugging and going back to his worn-out book.

**“Touché.”**

The two of them sit in silence for a few moments─Thomas catching his breath, the young boy reading his book─before eventually, Jefferson himself becomes uncomfortable with the quiet. Deciding to attempt to break the ice once more, he joins the boy on the─actually, quite filthy─bathroom floor and drapes his wrist over one of his cocked knees.

“I’m Thomas Jefferson. Nice to meet ya.”

The boy looks at him, the same disinterested, monotonous expression on his face. Thomas expects him to respond with his name─or at least, acknowledge the fact that he’d said something─, but he simply turns back to his book and continues reading. Almost as though Thomas didn’t exist at all. _Okay, this kid is seriously a jerk. Or weird as fuck._

“Jeez, tough crowd.”

The kid sighs─a quick huff of annoyance─and closes his book, of course earmarking the page he’d been on and giving the other boy a pointed glare. The expression practically screams _‘Are you gonna shut up or not?’_ but Thomas just gives a cheeky grin.

“I’m not gonna go away, y’know. So are you okay? Why’re you even in here?” He shrugs lamely again, setting aside _Pride & Prejudice _ and crossing their legs, eyes focusing on his worn-down sneakers. It doesn’t seem like this kid talks very much, but Thomas has never been one to meet a person he _couldn’t_ charm into opening up to him. “You’re ain’t a big talker, are you?”

He shakes his head, and Thomas nods thoughtfully. That’s fine. He had a significant amount of time to kill until rehearsal actually began─he didn’t have to be back in the theatre until five-thirty, and it was only four forty-five. Besides, he was always good at making _anyone_ talk to him. “Can I ask your name, then? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

The kid glares at him again, but then relents. “James Madison.”

“Okay, James, that’s a good start. Nice to meet ya. Why’re you readin’ in here?”

Sighing, James gives another shrug before admitting, “I don’t wannna go home just yet.”

“Why not?” Thomas can’t help himself. Maybe it’s because he has nothing better to do while Alex runs himself ragged around the campus in search of him. Maybe it’s because he’s a gossip with a tendency for nosiness. But he thinks it might be because this boy, James, seemed so melancholic. There was something about the air around him that saddened Jefferson, and he wonders why that is. Plus, Madison looked to be a challenging person to get to open up, and Thomas loved a challenge.

“You ask a lotta questions,” James deadpans. Thomas grins at him, toothy and boyish, and is surprised when James actually dares the smallest, saddest of smiles that the other boy had ever seen. When James says nothing more, Jefferson raises his eyebrow in question─gesturing for him to go on. “It’s personal, okay. I don’t really know you that well.”

“Touché,” the curly-haired boy says, echoing their earlier conversation. “Well, since it’s gross and borin’ and lonely hanging out in some grimy bathroom, do you wanna come with me to Theatre practice? We stay until seven, but I’ll tell your parents that we had a late rehearsal today.”

Truly, Jefferson doesn’t know why he offers up the proposition. The boy had a point when he said that they didn’t know each other well, but here he was─not only proposing that Madison come with him to Theatre practice, something that was considered sacred to him, but also offering to take him home afterwards. To lie for him to his parents, just in case he got in trouble.

Though, he believes that he asks because of that sad vibe that positively radiated off of this James Madison. That ‘my puppy died and my parents ran over it on their way to the hospital to visit my grandma’ level of depressing. Thomas had always been a happy, bubbly, outgoing kid─so he feels bad that for some reason, James is so sad that he doesn’t  even want to go home to his own _family_.

“You would do that?” Madison asks, eyes widening in shock. Thomas bobs his head eagerly, rising to his feet and outstretching a hand. It seems as though Madison considers it for a moment, considers staying in the bathroom all by himself with his tattered book, and for a few seconds Jefferson believes his offer will be rejected.

But then Madison takes his hand, allowing him to pull the other kid up.

“C’mon, if we hurry, we can mess with Hamilton a little more before rehearsal!”


	40. A Well-Learned Lesson (George/Gilbert) [[NSFW]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day of work, Lafayette knows how to help Washington unwind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “You need to learn your lesson. You need a spanking.”
> 
> tw: if you don’t like the Dominant Daddy/little girl kink, or if you’re not really a fan of spanking, or smut, then skip this chapter!
> 
> more smut practice, this time with dom/sub washette. i was reading about the sexual version of DD/lg and all of that just screamed washette so here we are. they don’t do the whole sippy cup/diapers/crib, etc. thing, their DD/lg relationship is more sexual and mentor-ish than anything.

George blinks the exhaustion of the long office day rapidly away from his eyes as he turns down the corner of the street leading to his home. After releasing his staff from the meeting—there was only so much of Alexander and Thomas’ bickering that he could take for one day—, he’d decided to stay late and chew on the _Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the Continental Congress_ article for awhile. He knew he couldn’t let those subservient bastards over at Kings Newsflash, Incorporated get away with what they were publishing about his candidacy, but he couldn’t go in slipshodding either. Each move he made, each word that came from his lips had to be _carefully_ calculated and premeditated. Anything that could damage his attempts to move up the political ladder had to be avoided. Even if it meant playing nice with the news company his ex-running opponent, George King III, heavily influenced.

He’d drawn blanks on how to go about the situation up until the very moment his phone had buzzed with two messages from his boyfriend, and he’d been reminded that he had to get home.

 **Gilbert:** babydoll.jpg  
**Gilbert:** hurry home daddy, babygirl is bored  & lonely

The promise of good old-fashioned stress relieving sex had allowed him to finally make the decision to close up shop. The excitement that accompanied image—Gilbert, wearing nothing but a pink lacy babydoll, pink pumps and some pink panties—had left him a little bent out of shape and even more tensed up than he had previously been. Plus, it was a welcome distraction. If Gilbert was thinking of getting his rocks off, he wouldn’t ask George about the campaign and how everything was going along. He didn’t think he could go home, look him in the eyes and tell him once again that they might not win. He hated murdering the little spark of hope in his hazel eyes every night.

After parking his Cadillac beside Gilbert’s car in the driveway, he climbs out of the vehicle, so excited that he leaves his suitcase and paperwork in the car. Briefly, his fingers brush against the shiny chrome of his husband’s car, and the corners of his mouth tug into a warm smile. He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t doing this alone—he always Gil to count on, and vice versa.

Sighing, George swaggers up to the front door and pushes it open. He half-expects for his ears to be assaulted immediately with noise. Lafayette at the stove yelling at his best friend—Maria Reynolds spent most of her time at their house, away from her toxic home life—to come help him, Maria yelling that he seems to have everything taken care of. That was the usual consensus around these parts.

But a different sort of sound graces his ears as he places his keys in the dish by the door, and it distinctly reminds him of the image that Gil had sent while he was at work. Of course he was home alone.

“ _Ah, fuck… Daddy please… please, fuck me…_ ” George gives an impressed glances towards the staircase that leads to their bedroom. It had only been recently that Lafayette opened up more with sex—he’d had a few bad experiences in the past, so George had needed to take his time with him and ease him into the sort of things they wanted to practice—and it was rare for him to touch himself if George wasn’t around. He usually refused to do anything with himself if Washington was missing from the equation, so he’s surprised to hear his husband making such sounds.

Excited, George saunters towards the stairs. He’s as quiet as possible as he ascends, and it seems to be working—there’s not a break in Gil’s pornagraphic moaning that says he’d heard his husband coming. Once he reaches the landing, the bedroom isn’t much further. It’s just his luck that the bedroom door is sitting wide open, and his spouse is putting on quite the show for him.

Lafayette is sitting on his haunches in the bed with his eyes closed, and there’s a familiar black collar around his neck—a collar that he and George used to use before their hurried marriage, but hadn’t had time to use since. He’s wearing nothing but a pink see through negligee that gives somewhat of a presentation for him from behind. His usually pulled back curly hair spills over his shoulders as he leans forward and strokes himself through the cute pair of panties—his french tipped nails occasionally dragging along his shaft through the material.

“I missed you so much, Daddy,” he whines, his voice broken and hoarse as he teases his tip. It’s quite a surprise to see him touching himself so lewdly—George had never seen him this way. “God, Daddy, just let me suck your cock…”

“Baby girl,” George announces, calling his attention towards him. Lafayette’s eyes fly open and his head whips around instantly—his sweaty, curly locks flying as he does. His face turns a shade of vermillion that George didn’t even know existed, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a child with his caught in the cookie jar. “Princess, what are you doing?”

“I was _so_ horny,” he explains, eyes flashing with a mixture of excitement and a fear. George cocks an eyebrow. “I needed something so _bad_.”

Washington pushes off of the doorway and goes to join his husband—standing against the edge of the mattress, just short of crawling onto the bed with him. As soon as he’s close enough, Lafayette scoots closer to him and presses his hands against his chest—his fluffy hair falling to curtain one of his eyes. They watch each other with intent eyes, before George asks if they’re in their ‘little space’. After Laf gives him a small nod with soft, meek eyes, George clears his throat.

The older man speaks sternly, hooking two of his fingers underneath his collar. “What’s your color right now?”

“Green,” Laf exhales, melting against his touch. If there was ever a descriptive image for the word ‘bliss’, then this is it.

“You’ve been very bad today, princess. You’re disappointing your Daddy,” the older man continues, his grip on the collar tightening. The leather presses into the caramel flesh of Lafayette’s neck and they give a small squeak. “I don’t remember giving you permission to touch yourself.”

Laf nods through his words, shifting his thighs in an attempt to get some friction on his aching cock. He practically deflates with a mixture of relief and overwhelming when George reaches down into his panties to thumb over the slit in his dripping head. “This is _mine_ , do you understand me? _I_ decide when you can get off. You’ve been a very, very bad girl today, Gilbert—touching things that don’t belong to you. You need to be punished, princess. **You need to learn a lesson. You need a spanking.”**

His whimpers of desperation turn into excited, agreeing mewls as soon as the words have left his dom’s mouth, head of curls bobbing enthusiastically. George almost smiles at how cute and desperate they are for repentance, decides that just maybe he’ll treat them later if he feels they’ve learned from their disobedience.

He removes his fingers from the collar and sits down on the bed, feet firmly planted on the carpeted floor. Patting his lap, he watches as Gilbert eagerly lays across his lap on the bed—his cock rubbing against the thigh of his dom’s slacks, his perfect round little ass exposed to the older man.

“Color?” George asks, hand rubbing over the creamy flesh of his sub’s ass. Gil is quiet for a moment, and Washington’s hand immediately stops its action when he doesn’t receive a response. But eventually, he hears Laf swallow thickly and say,

“Green.”

George shivers a little when they speak, realizing that this was truly happening. It had been long time since they’d entered the realms of the DD/lg kink—it’d been a long time since they’d entered the realms of any kink, but this one in particular. Usually with this one, he was far rougher with him than he was currently being… slapping, choking, degradation. Things of the like. Not all the time, but that used to get Lafayette off the best—and often times, it was the best sex that the two of them had. However, Laf was still tentative now that he wasn’t just a hooker but George’s husband—the older man never wanted him to feel as though things would always be so violent in their relationship.

“How many hits do you think you deserve for being bad today, hm?” he asks, hand resuming its rubbing motion. He can feel the goosebumps prickling up over their skin, so he gives their ass a gentle squeeze.

“Thirty, sir,” Gilbert responds, voice shaky. Looking over his shoulder at his husband, George notes that his face is already flushed with embarrassment and it makes him look even cuter than he already is.  “I was very, very bad and I deserve however many you want to give me but I think I’ve earned thirty.”

“I think you’re correct,” George nods, satisfied with the answer. “You’re going to count, and with every number, I want to hear how sorry you are, okay baby girl?”

Lifting his hand, George brings it back down heavily. The slap echoes throughout their bedroom, the sound absolute music to the dom’s ears. Lafayette gives a small squeak, and out of the corner of his eye, Washington can see him reaching out to grip the satin sheets.

“One, sir. I’m so sorry, sir,” he squeaks out. Again, George brings his hand down on Lafayette’s ass, this time after pushing aside the cotton candy colored fabric of their panties to have a more direct contact. Gil cries out at this one. “Two, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

By the time they’ve gotten to twelve, Lafayette’s ass is a burning, bright red and there are tears prickling his gorgeous hazel eyes—threatening to fall at any moment. Washington stops in concern, reaches up to pull his hands away from where he’d covered his face with them. “Color?”

“Green. Green,” he exhales, though his small frame is trembling. George doesn’t ask if it’s because of the spanking, or if it’s because he’s getting flashbacks to his old work—if he says he’s green, then his husband will indulge him what he wants. Of course, Washington is worried about him, but he knows that he has to stop treating Gil like he wasn’t an adult.

Slapping at his husbands ass again, Gil practically shouts out the word ‘thirteen’—voice breaking off before he can properly apologize. Knowing that praise always helped him through punishments, George pauses and reaches up to run his fingers through their curls. “I can tell you’re learning your lesson, baby. You’re a good girl, aren’t you? I know you don’t like being bad, I know you’re so good and so obedient. My perfect little princess.”

“No, Daddy, I don’t want to be bad! I want to be a good girl for you, I really do,” Gilbert cries, tears of ecstasy falling over his cheeks at the praise. He looks so happy at his doms words, so elated to be praised, that George knows he’ll be alright. So he brings his hand down again, and immediately they respond, “Thirteen! I’m so sorry, sir!”

The two of them continue in this manner together—with Lafayette sobbing out apologies and George taking breaks in the punishment to offer words of praise and encouragement—until Washington finally reaches thirty, and Lafayette slumps against the bed sobbing.

“Aw, my poor angel. C’mere to Daddy,” Washington says gently, sympathy and pride in his voice. He sits Lafayette up and shuffles the two of them around on the bed until he’s resting against the headboard with his husband cuddled in his lap. Gil is still crying as he does this, but taking one look at his husband’s face, George knows that they are tears of happiness and ecstasy—he was overwhelmed by all the senses, most likely.

Wiping away his tears with tissues on the nightstand, Washington cradles his husband in his arms—knowing that he’s always very sensitive after a punishment, and that he needs as much praise and reassurance as his dom could offer in the aftercare. “You did _so_ good for me, princess. You learned your lesson and I’m _so proud_ of you. Do you need anything? Some water?”

Lafayette nods meekly, still in his submissive/little headspace. Always prepared for things, Washington reaches into the bottom drawer of their nightstand and removes one of the mini bottles of water. Eagerly, the sub gulps down the refreshing liquid before finally resting against George’s chest sleepily.

“Can we go to sleep now, Daddy?”

“What happened to being horny?” Washington asks, amusement tinging his voice. Seeming somewhat embarrassed, Lafayette pulls the silky fabric of his babydoll up to reveal that sometime during his punishment he’d came—George can see the dark spot on their panties. Sighing goodnaturedly, the dom helps his husband wiggle out of the sticky, soiled underwear and tosses them into the dirty clothing hamper. Settling back down, he peels back the sheets on their bed and kicks out of his work clothes—stripping until he’s down to nothing but his boxers.

Both Lafayette and Washington slip under the covers, and Lafayette quickly cuddles up to his husband with a yawn. He’s already out by the time George reaches over to turn off the lamp, saying, “Of course, my princess. We can sleep now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little context — lafayette used to be a hooker and george used to be his favorite client. they lowkey fell in love with each other, but neither wanted to say anything bc they thought the other just saw them as a client/trick. when laf got busted for prostitution, it came to light that he was an illegal immigrant and he was going to be deported back to France. So he and george got married for the green card. laf has some emotional scars from when he used to be a hooker, which is why george worries about triggering him.


	41. At The Pool (Martha/Peggy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy takes a break and meets a new ‘friend’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person A's sister teaches swimming lessons and is waiting for her so they can go to lunch. Person B is picking up their child from lessons, and is very attractive. Despite the other single parents vying for B's attention B shamelessly flirts with A.
> 
> more marggy (after all that washette smut lololol). i think they’re my new fave ship. + more butch!Peggy

Contrary to popular belief—popular being amongst her sisters and the rowdy boys that she occasionally had the misfortune to call her friends—, Peggy Schuyler didn’t mind socializing outside of her various protests, rallies and marches. In fact, she often times _thoroughly_ enjoyed being in an environment where there wasn’t an end goal, where she didn’t need to shout to be heard, where there weren’t so many eyes on her and what she was doing. Shocking, right? And unlike her brother-in-law Hamilton, who so hypocritically criticized her rigorous work ethic, she was completely capable of taking a break from the mountain of work she somehow always managed to accumulate out of nowhere. Like most humans that didn’t run on 5 hour energy, coffee and redbull, she enjoyed being able to kick back and relax.

She just never had the time to do so.

When wasn’t deployed to wherever the army sent her for her station, she was at the little floral shop in Harlem her mother had co-owned helping her mother’s best friend and co-owner, Martha, keep up with the workload. Or she was taking on pro-bono cases she did to help fight an unjust system that worked against disenfranchised and marginalized people—she had gotten her law degree before joining the military because someone had bet her that she wouldn’t be able to handle the stress, and figured she could use the dusty degree for some good. Or doing some public speaking at schools and colleges around Harlem, trying to reach out to the kids there in hopes that she could help cultivate the next President or Nobel Peace Prize winner. She already had a mountain of work lined up for her right this moment, and she had _just_ gotten back into the city on leave.

The money she got for her public speaking affairs and the flower shop was good because it allowed her to help out the impoverished, crime-riddled communities that she had been adopted out of, so she had to keep working at that on a daily grind.

The rest of her spare time was spent organizing various protests for Black Lives Matter, LGBTQ+ and Feminist rights, many of which often intersected. It was frequent that she found herself at a ‘Black LGBT Lives Matter’ rally alongside her favorite protester and closest friend, John Laurens or at an ‘LGBTQ+ Womens Rally’, co-organized by a determined Maria Lewis. She used her father’s status in the government to give a voice that shed light onto big issues, since she knew he had the platform available. But this didn’t exactly allow for her to have time for normal human things—like spa days, or going out, or even dates.

Peggy is eventually faced with just how stressed she is from her workload when Eliza, finally fed up with almost never seeing either of her sisters—Angelica was just as, if not more busy than Peggy was—had instructed her to pick her up from the local YMCA so that the three of them could grab lunch and a movie. Eliza taught swimming listens to kids from the ages of four to eight at the Y, something she got to do because she was a stay-at-home mother. Sometimes Peggy envied her—all the free time she had. Sure, she was a Mom first and she was always with her kids, but sometimes her husband would watch them for the night so that she could go out or just relax for a moment.

There was no one for Peggy to share her workload with.

Considering that neither Angelica nor Eliza had afforded her the opportunity to decline the lunch date, Peggy finds herself pulling into the parking lot of the community center at eleven—which is thirty minutes before Eliza said her morning lessons ended. It’s a surprisingly nice Saturday—a bit warm for Peggy’s tastes, but sunny and bright. Spring was sweeping over New York, and the Y is packed with cars. It’s Spring Break for the kids in schools right now, which is probably why there were so many people at the center. She knew Eliza had mentioned there’d been some sports and arts programs gearing up for the week of Spring Break, and wonders vaguely if her sister is teaching in one of said programs.

Peggy is lost so deep in thought that she doesn’t really pay attention, and accidentally bumps into another woman on her way inside the center. Reflexively, Peggy reaches out to grab the womans arms to steady her, all while profusely apologizing.

“It’s okay, darlin’, it happens,” the voice says, thick with a Southern twang that Peggy knew wasn’t native to New York. Releasing the woman’s arms, Peggy finally gets a good luck at the woman’s face. She’s gorgeous, probably the most beautiful woman that Peggy had seen in New York yet. With long, dark curly hair streaked with blonde strands, wide green eyes brimmed with thick, black eyeliner and unmarred, smooth tan skin, the woman possessed an unconventional beauty. The lines of her face were sharp, with high cheekbones. Her eyes were deeply set and a bit wide, almost as though she was in a state of perpetual shock. She wore heavy makeup—highlighter, foundation, mascara and striking candy apple red lipstick—but it didn’t make her look like a clown, but like some sort of goddess. Both of her arms were sleeved with tattoos, and there was another one of a heart with the name ‘Frances’ over her left breast.

If Peggy were even to ignore her physical features and judge the woman by her clothing, she’d guess she’s a biker. Or at least, she hung with a biker crew. With tight black skinny jeans, high-heeled leather boots, and a tight black spaghetti-strap blouse. The chick dressed—at the least—awfully sexily to be hanging out around the family-friendly YMCA, but Peggy isn’t one to judge.

“Sorry again, ma’am,” Peggy says, putting both of her hands up in placation. The woman smiles a shiny white, perfect smile at her before turning and hurrying into the Y—which reminds Peggy of why she’s there in the first place.

The young soldier makes a beeline for the swimming pool, checking her watch to find that the class would be ending in twenty-five minutes. Once there, she waves at her sister—who’s in the water with a little freckled girl, helping her learn to float—and decides to take one of the seats that are lined up against a wall by the lifeguard ladder. She notices that parents are slowly starting to trickle in, filling in the seats beside her as they wait for their children to be done with their class. Most of them are Dads—probably put on babysitting duty for the weekend while Moms went to treat themselves after being with the kids all Spring Break—but there are a few mothers there too.

Peggy almost doesn’t notice when her nose is filled with a familiar perfume, but eventually a hand on her arm alerts her to the fact that the woman she’d bumped into in the parking lot has chosen a seat beside her.

“Oh! Hi, again,” Peggy says, surprised that the woman was sitting with her. The woman gives a finger waggle as a wave, and the younger of the two gestures towards the pool. “Your kid in the class?”

“Yeah, my little Frankie,” Biker Bombshell says, pointing to the freckle-faced girl that Eliza had been helping earlier. Both women watch as the little girl floats in circles, shouting ‘I’m floating! I’m floating!’ in elation. “You?”

“Me…? Oh! Oh, no. My sister is the instructor, I’m here to pick her up,” Peggy points at Eliza, who has moved on—she’s now with what looks to be a toddler, trying to prevent him from gulping down the chlorine water.

By now, the fathers around them have noticed this woman and her striking beauty—and all of them seem to have made it a mission to get her number. One father even sits on the other side of her as he enters the swimming center, in an attempt to get her attention. But he’s swiftly ignored by the bombshell beauty, who is giving Peggy all of her attention.

“Oh, just where are my manners? I’m Martha, darlin’. Martha Manning. You are…?”

“Peggy Schuyler,” the younger of the two responds, extending her hand for the woman to shake. She notices that Martha’s hands are really soft, despite her rough exterior, and they’re also well-manicured. Sharp, well-filed blood-red nails stand out against Peggy’s hand and she flushes at how domestic it looks with her hand in Martha’s.

Dropping the handshake, Peggy chooses instead to change the subject. “I hope you don’t take an offense or anything, but your accent… you’re not from here, are you?”

“No, I’m not. My ex-husband and I moved here from Charleston, South Carolina after we had li’l Frankie. We’re divorced now, but my little girl loves New York so much. I couldn’t bring myself to make her go back to South Carolina. I notice your tattoo… you’re in the military?”

She gestures to the ARMY STRONG tattoo on Peggy’s bicep, something she’d gotten while drunk after she completed BT. She hadn’t intended on joining the military becoming her career, it had just been something she’d signed herself up for on a whim when her father had told her she needed to find a direction in life. Though, he'd _probably_ meant doing something with that law degree she didn't use. After waking up with the tattoo, however, she’d decided that it was pointless to try to find something new to do. The army paid well, she always had a place to sleep at the barracks, and a lot of her deployment time was spent around computers or planes anyways.

“Uh, yeah. I’m an avionic mechanic,” she says. “I work on the planes and shit, basically.”

“That’s hot,” Martha says, a flirtatious smile on her lips. One of the fathers that had been watching her approaches now, opening his mouth to interrupt the two of them. Immediately, the flirty smile slips from Martha’s face and her eyes narrow icily. “I’m sorry, don’t you see we’re having a conversation?”

Taken aback by the sudden fury and iciness that emanates from the woman, the father raises his hands in defense and mumbles an apology before returning to his seat. Sighing in annoyance, Martha turns back to Peggy, “I’m sorry. It’s like everywhere I go, men are hounding me.”

“I wish I could relate to you,” Peggy shrugs. She’d always been a bit more tomboyish growing up—trading in the frilly dresses and ribbons her parents wanted her to wear for slacks and dress-shirts. Philip Schuyler didn’t mind so much—he’d always wanted a son, but he and Catherine had never gotten around to adopting one. He treated Peggy like his son—more than happy encourage ‘boyish’ behavior within his daughter. Even going so far as to allow Peggy to stay out late after giving her sisters a curfew. When she’d realized she was a lesbian, Philip just got even more lax—without having to worry about his daughter going out and getting pregnant, he pretty much allowed Peggy to do whatever she wanted.

Despite all of these perks that came with being ‘butch’, one of the downfalls was that unless it was a woman, Peggy never really got flirted with. Now that she’s older and knows her sexuality, she’s perfectly fine with going unbothered by the men she encountered. But when she was younger, she’d always thought something was wrong with her. Boys flirted relentlessly with both Eliza and Angelica—there’d been more than a few times they had sent their scrapper sister to go deal with a boy that couldn’t take the hint—but none really showed an interest in her. To this very day, Peggy had never had a man approach her in any effort to flirt with her.

“No, honey, ya don’t,” Martha snorts, glaring at another man who’d found himself staring at her tits. He flushes and looks away, at least having the decency to be ashamed of his creepiness. “I deal with shit like that all the time. It’s a shame that I have to put up with this just because _I_ wanna look sexy.”

“Here, here. But hey, the attention isn’t all unwanted, is it? There’s gotta be someone you don’t mind flirting with,” Peggy says optimistically, looking around at the men gathered at the pool. Some of them were fairly attractive—in fact, some of them were really attractive. She may be a lesbian, but she could recognize when someone’s features were aesthetically appealing no matter what the gender and some of the guys were handsome.

“Yeah, there is,” Martha says, though she’s not looking at any of the men. Peggy flushes, cheeks turning a bright shade of tomato red, when she realizes that the mother is looking at _her_. Unfortunately, she is unable to say anything, as they’re interrupting by the woman’s daughter hurrying over to where they sit.

Frankie jumps into her mother’s lap, still soaking wet from the pool, and wraps her arms around her. Peggy gently scoots a little to the side to avoid getting wet, but waves at the young girl goodnaturedly.

“Hi, angel,” Martha says, giving her daughter a giant kiss on the cheek. Frances giggles and returns the kiss. “Did you have fun today?”

“Yes! Miss Liza taught us how to float, Mommy! Did you see me floating!?”

“I did! Go get your clothes on—we’re gonna get pizza and then you get to go to Daddy’s house this week.” Frances nods and hops out of her mother's arms to grab her duffel bag before darting towards the locker room to change. Martha stands, running her hands over her now wet jeans, and Peggy for some reason feels the need to stand to.

Martha’s a little taller with her heels, so Peggy feels small and shy for just the splittest of moments—which isn’t the status quo for her, as she’s usually very suave, outgoing and electric. “Well, we’ve gotta get goin’ soon. But I’ll see you next Saturday, right Peggy?”

“Of course!” Peggy exclaims, too quickly for her own liking. Clearing her throat, she relaxes. “Yeah. But just in case I don’t, we should exchange numbers. You know, for just in case.”

Martha agrees and the two women put their numbers in each other’s phone—Peggy blushing when she realizes that Martha had inserted some kissy-face emojis beside her own name. Giving another light wave and a wink, the older woman disappears into the locker rooms—probably to help her daughter.

“Hey! Sorry class ran a little late,” Eliza’s voice says from behind her, startling her little sister. She gives a quizzical look at Peggy’s frightened little jump, but says nothing. “Ready to go? Angelica found a nice little sub shop in Upper Manhattan.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”


	42. Chastity (George/Gilbert) [[NSFW]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whenever Prince Gilbert de Lafayette needs something, he can always his his Knight and personal guard, Sir George Washington, to help him. Though, this time might be a little different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I’ve heard the good news. Congratulations, your Highness.” “What are you talking about? What good news?” “Well, your engagement, of course.” & “I’m still a virgin.”
> 
> more,,,, washette,,,,,,,, smut,, why am i like this

Sir George Washington watches Prince Gilbert as he stares out over the valley, arms resting on the balcony attached to his bedroom. The young Prince looks at peace in these moments, out of the stuffy Military uniform he was forced to wear to events and wearing nothing but a billowy blue tunic and white trousers—he’s even abandoned his shoes. His dark curls blow in the wind of the balcony, released from the perfect ponytail that he sported outside the confines of his privacy and falling down to his shoulders. Despite how uncouth and inappropriate it is for the Prince to be seen in such a state of undress, the older Knight can’t help himself but to stare—admiring the tranquil and peace that has completely enveloped his young charge’s energy. 

When the Knight remembers the news he’s come to deliver, a sickness twists in his stomach. He knows that this level of calm, confident serenity would probably never posses the young Prince ever again—especially considering that all of these attributes came from Gilbert’s independence. Something that was about to be viciously snatched away before the eighteen-year-old could even experience it.

Clearing his throat, Sir Washington knocks on the doorway to the boudoir, sharply ending the few shared moments of quiet that had blanketed the room. Bending at the waist to give the royalty his proper respects, he gently says, "Your Highness."

"George, how lovely it is for you to visit," Prince Gilbert says, surprise and joy in his voice. There’s a bright smile on his lips as he turns his back to the balcony to take in the frame of his personal guard. Gil never enjoyed using their official title that was bestowed upon him with the Knighthood, and didn’t like for George to use his. The prince insisted that they were far closer than some meaningless rank titles.

George hates that the sound of his name on his lips and that beautiful, lazy smile makes his heart flutter. It doesn’t help that the glow from the backdrop of sunset behind him makes him look almost ethereal. Heavenly. The knot in his stomach sinks a bit more. "Please, call me Gil. Look at the beautiful sunset. Come join me, yes?"

Figuring he could humor the young Prince for just a bit longer, he concedes—crossing the space between them to join Gilbert at the balcony. The boy stands on the tips of his toes to plant a kiss on the Knight’s cheek, flushing Washington’s face. Again, his heart flutters. And again, his stomach twists and sinks as he realizes that this joy would soon be cut short

  
"It is a lovely sunset. Beautiful,” Washington admits, though his eyes aren’t on the sky. They’re on Gilbert’s, those glistening hazel ones that looked at him with such love and admiration. It makes him feel not only guilty for withholding this truth from him, but also anger at the way things were set up.   
  
He was the Prince of this Kingdom, and because he was such, this shouldn’t have been happening. However, he’d had the misfortune of having an  _ elder  _ brother, and this brother would be the one to rightfully ascend to the throne after their father’s recent death. Because of this, Lafayette was being forced to marry off into another Kingdom—not only to form an alliance with a neighboring Kingdom, but so he wouldn’t be a threat to his brother’s rule. There had been too many instances where younger brothers have overthrown their elder brother’s throne and taken it for themselves, often times causing factions to form and wars to wage. The regency that was in place until Thomas’ coronation had decided that they could not risk waiting until Gilbert himself found his own suitor, they were forcing him to wed immediately. None of this was the worst part. No, the worst part was  _ who  _ he was being married off too.   
  
King George III, a King to a neighboring rival kingdom. He was—in short—an annoying whiny man who was known to abuse, berate and degrade most of his spouses that had come before Gilbert. After the sudden, tragic death of his first wife, King George had turned into an absolute tyrant of a man to the people his Court had tried to replace the woman with. If any of his husbands or wives said anything about the abuse—which, was well known throughout his Kingdom despite his efforts—he would immediately have them beheaded on charges of treason and blasphemy. He too had no children, and was newly unmarried. He proposed Gilbert’s hand in marriage—George knew it was because Gil was young, and pure, and meek in public eye—and the council had already accepted and begun to plan the wedding. And they sent Sir Washington to break the awful news.   
  
"George? Is there something wrong?" he asks, turning with genuine concern to his Knight. Washington swallows thickly, realizing that he’d been staring at the Prince for several long minutes. George wishes he could wed him instead, take him away from that slimy bastard—become the cliche ‘Knight in Shining Armor’ to save his princess. Or rather, prince.

But alas, Knights were forbidden from wedding royalty. Unless they were a Princess, in that case they had all the right to attempt  _ her  _ hand. But Princes, Princexs and Kings were off limits. It had been King Louis XIV’s—Gilbert and Thomas’ father and the former King—law. After of course, his eldest son had been murdered by a rogue Knight that had fallen in love with him. The Knight had acted out in a fit of rage after he’d learned of the Prince’s marriage to a peasant woman.

He had unknowingly cursed his fellow soldier, Sir Washington.

"Gil— _ your Highness _ ," he corrects himself quickly, takes a shaky breath. Now that Gilbert was engaged, he had to maintain a new level of professionalism. Hopefully, he would be allowed to follow the young Prince to his new Kingdom and remain a personal guard. But if he wasn’t, he needed to break the comfortable camaraderie the two of them shared.  **"I’ve heard the good news. Congratulations, your Highness."**   
  
**"What are you talking about? What good news?"** he asks, head cocked and frown forming on his face. The Knight winces, almost backs out of telling him—can’t bear to see the look of anguish that would inevitably grace their gorgeous features. But then he realizes he couldn’t let the man he’d grown to love—though he loathe to admit the fact—walk into this blindsided. 

**"Well, your engagement of course.** To King George III, you know him," then, in a lower voice. "The council already decided it, Gil. I'm sorry, your Highness."

There is a blanket of silence that settles over the two of them as George watches the young Prince process the information. Several different emotions flash over his face—first confusion, then shock, then anger followed by withering sadness. Another cringe from the Knight, and he reaches out to comfort the Prince by placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. This seems to snap Gilbert out of his catatonic shock, and his eyes quickly begin to water.

"No, I can’t be engaged… I-I’m courting you!" he says, eyes widened and voice a harsh, barely audible whisper. George quickly looks around the boudoir, noting the open door. He goes to close it before returning to his spot with the Prince, worry etched into his features. Gilbert really had to stop going around saying those types of things. Prince or not, they'd have his head in milliseconds. Knights and male Royalty were forbidden, he knew this. "How do  _ they  _ get to decide who I marry?!"

"I’m terribly sorry, Gil. I’m so, so,  _ so _ , sorry," he murmurs in response. George didn’t think he could express his grief and guilt enough—for not stepping in, not saying anything in the teenager’s defense. He tries to comfort the Prince by bringing him close and holding him against his chest. He was without his armor for now—as he was off duty until the Prince started his day—, so Gil could feel the hard muscles beneath. It comforted him, knowing that if need be Washington could—and would—protect him. "The King is on his way to our kingdom as we speak. It is estimated that he will be here in time for your brother’s coronation."

"George," he whines, tugging at the bottom of his shirt. There’s a look of horror and realization on his face now, and the Knight dreads to think of what could possibly be more horrific than meeting his future husband in less than a week. “George, I can’t marry that man! We will have to consummate! I…  **I’m still a virgin!** I refuse to lose my chastity to that barbarian!”

This thought makes Sir Washington’s stomach turn with sickness and disgust. The idea of the old, grimy man taking the sweet, beautiful young Prince’s virginity makes him recoil. George knew that King George would not appreciate Gilbert as he should be. He would not be slow, he would not lay worship upon the Prince’s body. There would be no passion to the consummation, no love.

And Gilbert deserved all of that and more.

Rage filling his entire being at the thought of Prince Gilbert being roughly abused and handled by the lascivious monarch, at the mental image of the young boy being shoved down onto a bed and simply taken—like a piece of meat, like something that was not meant to be cherished. His hold on the boy tightens, protectiveness pulsing throughout his every vein.

“I don’t know what else to do, Gil,” he whispers, hopelessness creeping into the edges of his voice. He rests his chin against the top of the Prince’s head, rubs soothing circles into his back. This is to not only hopefully soothe and calm the near-hysterical Prince, but himself. “Thomas did everything he could to stop this, but there’s nothing he can do. His regency still remains in full power. And I… I am but a Knight. I hold no power over your Court.”

“No,” Gilbert agrees, and there’s a thoughtfulness in his voice. “You’re right. Neither of us hold any power over the Royal Court. However, I do hold power over one thing. There is one thing that the King, my brother, and the regency cannot take from me. And that is the power to choose.”

“To… to choose, your Highness?” Washington asks, suddenly very confused. Did Gilbert not hear him say that he had no choice in marrying King George, that he would be forced to do it anyways? What ‘choice’ could he possibly be thinking of?

And that’s when Gilbert pulls away, and looks up at his protector through tear-dropped eyelashes. His eyes are still brimming with little droplets, and his cheeks are tracked with them—but to George, he looks just as beautiful as ever. In fact, he is tragically so. Like a fine painting, face forever captured in sorrow.  

It dawns on him as Gilbert’s hand slides over his chest, fingertips coming up to ghost lightly over his collarbone. He knew what the young Prince wanted from him, though he was unsure of whether or not he was willing to indulge. George was aware that if he didn’t do this, the Prince’s new betrothed certainly would—and the man wouldn’t be nearly as appreciative of the moment.

“Washington, you have to save me,” he pleads, voice innocent and small. There’s desperation in his eyes as he fidgets with George’s tunic again—this time, with a purpose in mind. “Save me from that evil man.”

He knows what must be done. His job is to protect Gilbert, from any and all danger. And his job would be what he would do. Wordlessly, George removes his shirt and lifts the smaller of the two so that his legs wrap around his waist, before walking him back into his bedroom.

 

Gilbert falls on the bed, and Washington crawls on top of him, kissing the corner of his mouth. He bites down on his shoulder to keep him quiet because to be honest, he couldn't actually save him. And that thought burned his insides like iron on fire so he simply makes him stop talking. That's what he was always good for, anyways.

He licks his lips and tries to control the excitement growing in his pants—damn this boy for that—as Gil gives him that pitying look. George rests his hands on the younger man's waist, and foul thoughts fill his mind of what the Prince would look like underneath him without those dreadful threads.

  
"Your Highness," he remembers suddenly that this is wrong, and unprofessional. This child was under his charge, he was supposed to protect him. He couldn’t be fantasizing about things he couldn’t have. Why is that he remembered these important things much too late? "You don't want this, sir. Trust me."   
  
"Enough of the formalities, George, and that’s an order! My god, I know you're attracted to me," Gilbert huffs in frustration, wiggling beneath him. He pushes the other man up and sits on the edge of his bed with a pout that could move mountains. His arms cross over his chest, and for some reason, he looks oddly adorable. If it weren't for the heavy topic at hand they were discussing, he would have had to resist the urge to squish his cheeks. Now he's resisting the urge to fuck him senseless on those soft, pristine sheets. "So what're you waiting for? Just… let’s get it over with already. I don’t want my first time to be with someone I don’t love.  _ Please _ ."   
  
"No," Washington insists, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He needs to keep his head on straight, not let his lust get the better of him. "You're eighteen. I'm forty-one. You're still a baby, Gilbert. A little boy. Do you realize how uncouth and inappropriate this is?"   
  
"It's inappropriate that I’m going to be forced into an awful betrothal with a man that I hate, too. But no one's attempting to stop that," he replies coolly. "As for being a little boy, I shed that title when I became the General of my father’s army and saw the atrocities of war. I haven't been a 'baby' since I was thirteen. So please, George. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do this for me."   


"You're an awful flirt," Washington says, before yielding and closing the space between them again—this time to sit on the bed beside him. He stares at him for a moment—at his curly dark hair, his scared yet explosive hazel eyes. Gilbert is bloody  _ beautiful _ and it's not okay for him to think that. "This is irreversible. Once you lose your purity, you can’t decide that you’ve made the wrong decision and get it back. Are you sure about this?" 

He can’t be sure as to why he’s doing this. There are a million and one reasons why he shouldn’t, and yet, he still considers it. It could come down to the fact that Gilbert is young, and vulnerable, and Washington doesn’t want anyone taking advantage of him. Or, maybe he’s doing this because he’d do anything this man asked of him… he’d die for him, if asked to lay down his life.

But most of all, George thinks it’s because he’s hopelessly in love with his charge.

“I’m sure, George. I’ve never been so sure of anything else in my life.”

Washington gives a final deep breath, steeling his resolve, before dropping his lips down onto the young Prince’s. He now notices the fact that Gilbert tastes surprisingly sweet—like sugar and fresh fruit. It’s obvious that he’s never been kissed before because their teeth bump awkwardly against each other until Gil finally relaxes into the kiss, letting George take control.

The Prince shudders when Washington’s tongue slides over his bottom lip in a plea for entrance, relinquishing his mouth for the other man to explore. It’s a wonder—how good his mouth felt on only his lips. Imagine the wonders it would cause in place where he himself had never dared to venture.

Somehow, the two of them fall back onto the bed again—Gilbert with his head in the pillow, George on top of him. Despite him telling his body not to be so lewd, Gil’s hips move upwards—grinding his groin against George’s lower stomach. The older man chuckles at the action, slides his cold fingers beneath the cloth of his lover’s tunic to tweak and tease one of his hardening nipples. This elicits a hiss of both pain and pleasure that comes from somewhere between his teeth, and Gil can feel Washington hardening against his thigh.

  
When Gilbert had asked his guardian to take his virginity, and he expected the type of lovemaking he'd accidentally seen traded between Thomas and his fiancee, Angelica. Kisses like small pecks or chaste lip brushes, hands shy and explorative but comfortable. He’d only walked in on the two of them twice—the first time, curiosity got the best of him and he watched before alerting them of his presence—but neither of those times had prepared him for anything like this. 

This is much more heated and passionate, a kiss that only two lovers madly in love would share. It's intoxicating—Washington’s tongue is exploring everywhere in his mouth, and again it takes Gil a long moment to get over his shock and react. However, once he does, things get far more messy. His tongue pushes back against George’s, battling for dominance now that he’s been shown how to kiss. And he becomes almost dizzy with how much he realizes he loves this man.

 

Unfortunately, Gilbert pulls away first. He's gulping breaths of air and staring at Washington like he had just told him all the secrets of the world. How could something forbidden and wrong feel so…  _ right _ . He doesn't know what's in Hell—which is where his father said boys who have sex out of wedlock go—, but if whatever’s there is as electrifying as this, he’d go without a moments hesitation. He never wants this to end. 

And George doesn't let it end, nibbling on his bottom lip and peeking up at him with knife-edge eyes. Washington worries the soft flesh between his teeth, before pulling away sharply and lifting Gilbert’s tunic over his head. He does the same with his  undershirt, tossing both articles of fabric to the floor hurriedly before lowering his mouth onto the younger man’s nipple.

A loud gasp escapes Lafayette’s now swollen and bruised lips as the feeling of his warm mouth over his nipples sends an electric shock through his body. His spine tingles with sensation at the feeling of him pulling one of his hardened nipples between his teeth gently—not hard enough to hurt him, but rough enough to bruise and swell them.   
  
"George," he sighs, his legs wrapping around his lower back in blindness, pulling him against his body. Gilbert can feel the thick bulge poking out of his trousers and he swallows past his desire. That would come soon, he promises himself. Live for the now. " _ More _ ."   


"So eager, your Highness," he says, his voice rustic and heavy with need. While his mouth works on teasing his chest, his hands slide over Gil’s flat stomach and down to his pelvic area—all while he pushes himself from in between his legs and readjusts to the side of them. Teasingly, both hands push the young prince’s pants and undergarments down, tossing them to the foot of the bed lazily. Anticipation knots in and sits beside the lust in Lafayette’s stomach. He knows what's coming—the blasé sex education classes as well as his brother had spoken of it a million and one times.   


Washington’s skilled fingers dance over Laf’s pelvic bone, grazing over the soft flesh between his thighs before fluttering back to splay against his stomach. Gil pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he parts his legs further apart. Teasingly, one of Washington’s fingers sneaks down to his entrance and a shiver crawls it's way down his lover’s spine. Washington reaches over into the chest beside the bed. He is surprised when he finds the bottle of oil that he thought he wouldn’t have, but doesn’t let that surprise keep his lover waiting. After putting some on his hands and soaking two of his fingers in it, he looks back up to his lover.

“This might hurt, just a little. If it’s too much for you, just say stop. Alright?” Lafayette nods obediently, and is rewarded with a gentle kiss on the lips. Washington uses this kiss to distract the Prince as he presses gently with his finger and pushes past his entrance, into the soft warmth inside.

Gilbert cries out in nothing but complete ecstasy, the pain fueling him as he pushes his hips against his hand in a plea for more friction. George obeys, plunging one finger inside of him and curling it in, causing him to moan his name and a victorious smirk to dance across Washington’s lips.

George removes his lips from Lafayette’s nipple—giving a final lick that has him shaking again—and presses a small kiss to the corner of his mouth before adding another finger. The Prince whimpers, back arching as his lover pumps and stretches his hole. He hadn’t expected for this to feel so good, so  _ exhilarating _ . 

Looking up to check on Laf, Washington pauses his finger movement and raises an inquisitive eyebrow—making sure that he was alright, that he wasn’t in too much pain. Gil doesn't know how he's supposed to speak while his finger is still working wonders on him that would make a blind man be able to see again, so he nods his head instead.

Washington finger-fucks the eighteen-year-old until, apparently, he is satisfied with how well stretched he has made the boy. Either that, or he’s unable to wait any longer. Sliding his fingers out of Lafayette’s hole with a lewd  _ pop! _ , the Knight reaches for the oil again. This time, however, he kicks out of his own pants and undergarments lathers up his member with it. Gil watches with wide, lustful eyes—taking in the girth and length of his Knight’s cock. He wonders what that’ll feel like, and if it’ll hurt. Then, once those thoughts pass, he wonders how he’d known Washington as his personal guard since joining the military and yet, had never seen him in this state before.

Once Washington has lathered his member in the oil, he sets the bottle aside and returns to his position over Lafayette—his legs between theirs, one of his arms supporting his weight while the other holds himself in his hand to guide him into Gil’s hole.

He says nothing, but kisses the spot just under Lafayette’s ear. The kiss sends another shiver down Gilbert’s spine and he wonders just when the hell did ears becomes so  _ sexy _ ? Maybe they were never sexy, and maybe it's just the fact that it’s George. But that's a dangerous thought—a thought that is pushed to the back of his mind.

Washington carefully pushes in, stretching Gil to the point where it sends pain shooting through his body. The older man hits a spot inside of him as he bottoms out that has his eyes rolling back in his head. A loud moan of his name escapes from Lafayette’s throat, a moan George uses his mouth to swallow.

George relaxes a little bit as he settles over his lover, waiting for Lafayette to stop writhing and his legs to stop quivering. Laf’s hands grip his guardian’s back, nails digging into the tanned skin there. It admittedly does hurt, but the pain is mixed with an intoxicating sense of being stretched and the feel of the tip of George’s cock resting right over his prostate. Had he known that sex with his trusted General would feel this good, he would’ve seduced the older man much sooner than this.

Its almost tragically beautiful—how he’s introduced to the rushing, overwhelming feeling of love and satisfaction when the Knight is buried inside him… only to have it taken away within the week.

His thoughts are quite literally fucked out of him as Washington pulls out before plunging inside of him and hitting that spot again. Suddenly he's trembling again, and shaking, and it feels like a thousand fireworks are dancing across his body. George’s eyes find his face—his eyes scrunched closed, his mouth open in a soundless shout, a whole new look of serenity that he'd never seen on him before—and he almost  _ sighs  _ in contentment. Lafayette is beautiful and he’s actually feeling happy that he'd come to him instead of waiting to be raped by King George.   
  
He would worry about the dangers of that thought later.   


Right now, he needs to light dynamite behind his eyelids and make him see into another dimension. Right now, his worries mainly consist of Gilbert and his pleasure. Washington’s mouth finds Lafayette’s again and he kisses him again—gentler this time, something sweet and passionate and… loving. Something that he should not be doing—, before drawing his lips down the side of his neck and down to his collarbone. He trails a path of kisses over his clavicle, nibbles at the skin there until the flesh begins to redden. One of his hands grips Lafayette’s thigh, squeezing the skin there as he thrusts slowly into his ass while the other wraps around his cock—pumping him to aide in completion.  "You’re so tight for me, Gil," he groans into the flesh of Lafayette’s shoulder, caressing his outer thigh. Lafayette’s cheeks begin to burn a fiery red and he grins at the prudishness—even though he was underneath his guardian getting fucked into oblivion, he still managed to maintain a sense of propriety.  _ How cute. _

“George,” Lafayette moans, voice accompanied by a tremor. They’re moving slow and sweet together—George’s mouth switching between creating bruises on Lafayette’s skin and making out with him lazily as his hips rock back and forth in a steady, tender rhythm. “George, I love you.”

Washington freezes, for just a moment, and takes in his expression. The words seem to simultaneously freeze and melt the Knight’s heart, as he is made aware of two guaranteed facts. One, he loves them, too. With every bone, every drop of blood, every  _ cell  _ in his body. He adores them endlessly. He had realized this long ago, but had buried the emotions within himself. Reminding himself that Gilbert was a child, and he was supposed to be protecting him not romancing him. But these few moments had broken the dam, sending all those feelings of love and admiration back.

Washington knew what he felt was real, because he had made love to a hundred different women, but somehow this is different and new—somehow it's like his first time all over again.

Two, there was a possibility he would never see them again after the following week. In several days, the love of his life would be shipped off, and there was no guarantee that he would be allowed to follow his charge to his new home.

These few, precious moments were all they had.

He decides not to remind them of these things. For, since these moments were all they had, he didn’t want Gilbert to remember him as being despondent. Using the hand that was on their thigh, Washington brings it up and lightly caresses the side of his face. His lover leans into the touch, eyes fluttering open and a content smile forming on his lips.

“I love you, too, Gil. More than you will  _ ever  _ know.”

“Make love to me, George,” Lafayette says in response, eyes half-lidded. George is more than happy to obey the command, resuming his steady tempo and bottoming out with each thrust. He’s rewarded with moans of pleasure emanating from the man he loves, every stroke increasing his cries in volume.    
  
It's euphoria for the young Prince—Gilbert’s body is prickling with a sensation he's never experienced before, something he's almost sure he'll never experience again. George’s  mouth is working wonders as he switches between lazily making out with him and creating new bruises on his flesh. 

Washington gently squeezes the fist he has around Gil’s cock, attempting to enhance the experience just a little bit more. He strokes the length of his lover, moving his thumb over the slit in the head every time his hand comes up—teasing the head and using the sticky precum as a sort of lube. Above him, Gilbert places the edge of his pillows in his mouth to muffle the loud shout that burns it's way through his throat. Something sparked with an impatient tick blooms in his lower belly at George’s work, which he voices aloud.

"George," he whines, nails digging into his as he realizes what the feeling is. Washington doesn't stop though—there's no way in hell he’s not gonna ride Lafayette through his first orgasm, and their first together. " _ George _ ."

Gilbert tries to pull his hand away, to spare him, but one final thrust against his prostate sends his eyes rolling into the back of his head. It burns like spirits down a cold throat—heating up his entire body. Firecrackers burst on his skin, exploding and illuminating his body with iridescence. George lights him on fire, sending this strange tingling sensation up and down his spine, making him feel alive like for the very first time in his life. Lafayette’s entire body crackles, his pupils dilate until his irises are no longer visible, and Washington’s name continues to skitter and tumble from his throat like a prayer to some sort of God. Light fills his entire being—for a moment, he's reaching towards the moon and falling upon the stars.

It should be a crime to be in so much bliss.

When he comes down from his high, tears are streaming down his cheeks and Washington’s hand is covering his mouth. Lafayette glances at him—the effects of his first orgasm fading but never quite leaving—and realizes that he, too, had an orgasm. George is shuddering himself, groaning into the sweaty skin of Gilbert’s shoulder.

“Shh, Gil, it’s alright. I have you, my love, I have you," he whispers hoarsely, brushing back his sweaty hair and holding his shaking body. "There you go, let it out…”

Once the last few shudders have gone through his body, and he’s been thoroughly exhausted, Washington removes his hand from his mouth to plant a chaste peck on his lips. Gilbert is surprised at how tired he suddenly feels, how exhausted. The effects of his climax are almost immediate, and as soon as George rolls off of him, he pulls his covers up and snuggles into the Knight.

“Get some rest, baby,” Washington murmurs, running his fingers through Gilbert’s hair to soothe him. The Prince yawns, shifting so that he’s as close to George as possible. Using his other arm, the older man wraps it around his Prince—his Prince, how adorable—before pecking a kiss on his temple. “Don’t worry. I love you.”

Lafayette doesn’t respond, as he’s already fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i’m writing a lot of smut bc a) i need practice and b) its the only thing i’ve really had muse to write lately. Probably like one more chapter of this, and then I promise i’ll go back to writing SFW works


	43. The Tattoo Shop (Angelica & Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelica found many things obnoxious, but her next door neighbors especially so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person B owns a flower shop right next to Person A’s tattoo shop. Person A’s shop always plays loud, obnoxious music. Eventually, Person B gets fed up and asks them to turn their music down. What happens next is up to you.

The loud noise from the establishment next door is what drives Angelica Schuyler out of her cozy little flower shop one Saturday afternoon, during what was _supposed_ to be her lunch break. Laughing, shouting, and loud metal music drift from the open doors of the tattoo shop and through her _closed_ windows, rocking the walls of her establishment. It had to be illegal to be that loud… _right_ ? And Angelica was pretty sure the other business owners on the block didn't favor the noise much, either.   
  
Ever since she and her friend bought the little building that had become their flower shop, she'd been dealing with this problem. The shop was supposed to be quiet and serene—her intentions had been to make the quaint little flower shop into a soothing, relaxing greenhouse-esque environment so that customers felt at home when they came in. Theodosia—best friend since childhood and co-owner—had said that's what flowers are _supposed_ to do for people. Bring joy or calmness.

But things couldn't be joyful or serene when the neighbors were a bunch of loud heathens with nothing better to do than waste away their bodies with ink and piercings. It wouldn't even be so much of a problem if it were restricted to just day or night, but this seemed to be 24/7. When she arrived at the shop at nine in the morning, it was kind of quiet—if there weren’t guys outside revving their engines to… she doesn’t know, impress people? But as soon as eleven o'clock hit, the noise kicked up into full gear and by noon it was unbearably loud. It didn't stop until long after she'd closed down and gone home for the day.  
  
Sighing, Angelica calls to her best friend. The girl pokes her head out of the back room—where she'd probably been working on that huge wedding centerpiece order—and makes her way to the front counter. She leans against the class casing, pushing her glasses up on her nose and quirking an eyebrow at her co-owner.   
  
"Do you hear that?" Angelica asks, frustration dripping from her voice as she stares at the bikes parked in front of the next door building with angry, narrowed eyes. Theodosia nods her head, pulling her dark braids into a ponytail away from her face.   
  
"Who _doesn't_ hear that? Why don't you go ask them to quiet down?" she suggests, drumming her nails against the counter. Angelica shakes her own head, before moving away from the front door—which she’d been spying on the neighbors from—to join Theodosia at the counter. The windows rattle again with another kick of bass.   
  
"Doing nothing isn't going to get them stop, ‘Gelica," Theodosia points out. "And I've been _dying_ to know what it's like in there. You should go and bring back details— _juicy_ details, please and thank you." Angelica looks at her friend incredulously, prepared to laugh in her face at the notion. _Her?_ In a _tattoo_ shop? Laughable.

 Angelica was a bit of a hermit—her main destinations consisted of the apartment she shared with her siblings and friend, the shop and the occasional adventure into the next town to visit with her parents. She didn't even go to the library—she usually had Peggy bring her home some books when they went to the library to study. Why the hell would she go to a _tattoo shop_ , of all places? Even if she wasn’t going for a tattoo.

Then again, Theodosia _was_ right. Doing nothing wasn't going to quiet them down, and she'd be damned if she sent chronically impulsive Theo over there. Next thing she knows, Aaron Burr is kicking down her door because Theodosia came back with a face tattoo and nipple piercings. At least Angelica knew _she_ didn't want any of those things, and she could easily go and come back without worrying about warping her face or body.   
  
Angelica sighs in annoyance and runs her hand through her curls, ignoring the teasing slight of Theo’s elbow in her side. Marching over to the coat rack reluctantly, she sternly instructs Theodosia to watch the shop and _not_ to follow her. The woman rolls her eyes and promises, though she doesn’t miss the opportunity to call her best friend a stick in the mud. Wrapping her sweater around herself as a sort of security blanket, Angelica pushes open the door and marches outside into the cool Fall weather. The rock music was louder outside, enough to make the ground beneath her feet shake and she cringes. How could they hear _anything_ over this music in there? This was going to be impossible.   
  
It's barely a couple of feet from her establishment to theirs— _Revolutionary Inc._ , a play on the words ‘ink’ and ‘incorporated’—so it doesn't take long for Angelica to slip into the building. Her eardrums threaten to pop at the intensity of the music, which is effectively muffling the sound of needles against skin and the cries of patrons. The busy artists concentrate _mostly_ quietly on their work, occasionally looking up to check on their client, but the ones without work sit in their chairs or on their tables and talk animatedly. If Angelica could think past the noise, she would wonder how they could manage to hear each other over everything.   
  
"Excuse me!" Angelica shouts, doing her best to yell over the screaming emanating from the stereo. A few artists look up at her, but only one of them actually pays her enough mind to makes their way over. This man is considerably tall—maybe a head or two taller than her—but his limbs are long and gangly. Of course, he’s decked from the neck down in tattoos—Angelica wouldn’t expect anything less. His body covered in different patterns and pictures, some of which are actually really nice—like one on his bicep that seems to be a little Eiffel Tower. His right eyebrow is pierced, and his hair is thick and curly—falling over his heavily pierced ears.   
  
"What can I do for you, miss?" he asks, his voice thick with a southern drawl, and a cocky smirk on his lips. His eyes droop a little as he looks her up and down, tongue darting up to moisten his lips when he finds her face again. It takes Angelica an embarrassing amount of time to realize that he's flirting. One of the artists coughs 'man-whore' loudly and the entire shop riots in laughter, making Angelica’s face go red. The man turns and gives them all the finger, much to Angelica’s annoyance. “Excuse those dickheads. What is it that you need, beautiful?"   
  
Clearing her throat, Angelica says, "I came to ask you to turn your music down. I work at the shop next door and the noise is disturbing me and my friend. Not to mention, scaring away our potential clientele. So either turn it down, or I will get the police involved. Please."

 She has to admit—that last 'please' is laced with anger and sarcasm, but she can't help herself. It had been _months_ with this going on, and it had started to affect how many customers they got. At this point, the man was messing with her livelihood—anyone would be aggravated by that.

 There's a missed beat, where the man stares at her as if she's as strange creature whom he'd just discovered and the entire shop pauses their actions. Then he laughs—actually laughs—in her face, shaking his head and placing his hand on her shoulder. Of course, with his laughter comes theirs.

"No can do, sweetheart. This shop thrives on our music—turning it down would be inhumane, barbaric… uncultured," he says the last word in a mockingly horrified tone as a few of the patrons and artists snicker. She smacks his hand off her shoulder, fighting the fury that bubbles inside of her. It was no secret that Angelica had a mild problem with her anger, one that could be sparked in the slightest of things—it was something she had learned to maintain in her recent adulthood, but something that could still be triggered if she was pushed to a certain point.

This stranger didn’t know this, of course, which is why she counts to five before answering through clenched teeth.

"I'm sure your owner would disagree. Do you mind if I speak to him er…?" her eyes scan his ripped t-shirt for a name tag, but it seems as if there is none there. Noticing her confusion, the man smirks.   
  
"Thomas Jefferson, sweetheart. I _am_ the owner. Well, co-owner." A suggestively-dressed woman with half of her head shaved and tattoos running up both of her arms walks up to Thomas, looking Angelica up and down with lust in her eyes before whispering something in the man’s ear. They chat under their breath for a moment, and Angelica doesn't miss the snickering in her direction when he explains the situation.   
  
"Ah, excuse me a bit, miss. I’ve got to take a message. I'll return shortly," and with that, Thomas darts through the throng of people crowding the shop to the back of the building, leaving Angelica standing amongst the artists and patrons awkwardly.   
  
It takes a long while, and for a moment she believes he hadn't gone to fix a problem at all. But then he returns with beat up notebook and a smile.   
  
"Hey there, pretty lady," Jefferson calls, once close enough in hearing range. "Thought you'd be gone by now." The half-shave girl pats his shoulder and saunters off, the arrival of a new customer being her new focus of interest. Angelica rolls her eyes.   
  
"Now, about the music," she says, much calmer than before he left. Thomas nods thoughtfully, and for a second she actually dares to believe that he's seeing sense.   
  
"You know, you're a pretty raw canvas," he says, causing her to furrow his brow. "Fresh meat, from the looks of it. From the pole obviously shoved up your ass, I know you've never been touched by ink. Why don't we change that, princess? You seem like the type of girl to want flowers inked on her. And there's nothing wrong with that."   
  
"What does that have to do with anything?" Angelica asks, ignoring the insult about the pole shoved up her arse. She was going to chew him a new one on that _later_ .   
  
"You need to relax, sweetheart. Let's see… you're a daffodil type of girl? Or maybe daisies? C'mon, owner's treat," he says, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Angelica quickly pushes him off, unable to contain her rage any longer.   
  
"I don't want to damage my body with your tattoos, _asshole_ ! All I want is for you to turn down your music so that I could go back to my shop in peace! Is that so hard to _ask_?!" Almost immediately after her little outburst, a silence completely blankets the shop—sans the loud music, which still booms throughout the building. The man clears his throat and waves the girl with the half-shaved head over again. He whispers something to her, all the while the both of them staring at her like she was crazy woman released from a madhouse. When the man is done talking to her, she goes over to the speakers and turns them down—the music still blasting through the air, but significantly quieter.   
  
"Thank you," Angie says triumphantly, adjusting her shirt. "And how about something better than that music? That would be even better than turning that stuff down." The man smirks and nods his head before walking her to the door and opening it.   
  
When Angelica returns to the flower shop, her friend is rearranging a centerpiece of flowers and humming the tune of the music under her breath. Angelica makes sure to slam the door closed to alert Theodosia of her presence before sliding onto the stool next to her, not even removing her coat.   
  
"That was _awful_ ," Angie says, after a long pause of silence. Looking up, Theodosia opens her mouth to reply, but the classical sounds of Mozart fill their shop—louder than the music that had been playing before.


	44. Take Your Time With Me, My Love (John/Thomas) [[NSFW]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stolen moments that belong to nobody but themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Shh, or else we’ll get caught.”
> 
> just some context: John & Alex are fuckbuddies, and Thomas is married to James but when he’s not in Virginia he doesn’t wear his wedding ring. John & Thomas are having an affair and trying to keep it from everyone around them.

John knows that waiting will never be something he's capable of. He had always possessed a ‘no time should be spared, even when it can’ mentality, a mentality that had helped him survive through the years. His father had taught him this, long ago—so long, that memories of his voice were sepia and faded. Not that it matters, who had sewn this way of thinking into the very fabrics of his conscience. What matters was right there, in the moment, sitting in front of him with a desolate look on his face.

The point is he's not playing games with anything, anymore—he’d seen the consequences of playing a long con and refused to make the mistake of choosing that path again. This choice, this admancy to color outside the lines… it had been hard to stick by it. Hard to maintain when picture-perfection had always been the easier route. But he managed, because he was John Laurens and that's what he did.

Jefferson isn't playing anymore either, staring at him with those lust-filled eyes—practically fucking him with his stare. _That asshole_. And he knows—he knows how _weak_ this shit is, toying with emotions and fanning the flames of desire. They both know how dangerous the other would become and they both still lick at the fire with no trepidation.

If Alex found out, if the _world_ found out… John knows that the end game would be far from desirable. There was no desirable outcome for a situation that involved sitting opposite his best friend's 30-something political rival with a hard cock in his boxers.

He downs the liquor left in his whiskey glass and turns it upside down—challenging the dangerous man across from him with the same air of arrogance he’d come to hate in anyone else. Thomas flips it back over, splashes some more Jack into the glass and slides it back across the table with a heat in his dark eyes. _Do you really want to play this tonight?_

John pushes it back to him—still full—, eyebrow cocked. _Do you?_

Jefferson nods, downs the shot and upends the glass. This game they played was won for the night, but it lacked too many attractive winnings. The whiskey burns trickling down his throat and a part of him wishes to hell that he would stop folding in this stupid fucking game of theirs. This dance around what is to happen when the final ounce of Jack is gone and there's nothing between them but an empty shot glass and a milleniums worth of sexual tension.

Thomas wishes that he wasn't so attracted like a moth to his flame, that he could walk away from this man with the sparkling coffee colored eyes and the tequila on his breath.

His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and Laurens is tragically enticed. He leans across the table, one hand snaking towards Jefferson’s slyly, as if they both can't see it—can’t see what’s in front of them, can’t see what’s coming. Both of their hands are calloused and rough from years of abuse and the wrong kind of treatment, but somehow—when they finally lock fingers—Thomas’ hands are much softer. It makes John feel too out of place, too lower class to be here with this man, and he briefly wonders if  Jefferson is only fucking him for a charity case. If John is only attractive to him because he's something he isn’t supposed to have.

John’s moment of self-doubt passes, as he realizes that he's _damn fine_. He may look distressed, rough exterior and toffee eyes. He may even look careless—the urge to ‘manscape’ escaping him outside of a shower, a shave and deodorant. But Jefferson knows better—he sees the rough-exterior of the smaller man for the scared little kid he is. This little boy with terrible daddy issues and an itching to get his hands on something to make him feel good for a little while. And he knows how to do that for him—how to unwind him. He knows everything about Laurens—which also means that he knows what makes him tick. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to dismantle his bomb.

Thomas doesn't mind playing ‘Daddy’ for a night.

 _Tick tock, John’s a clock_ , he thinks drily, pulling the other man across the table roughly by his bicep. Laurens slides against the sticky wood easily enough, straddling his lap after some brief readjustment. He feels like he’s ready to explode.

If there was anything to be afraid of in this twisted little match they fought, it was this. These moments, right here, where the tension was so dense John could feel himself burning beneath Thomas’ touch. He's not budging, though, he's just staring at his forbidden fruit with those hazel eyes full of self-loathing and lust. _Tough kid._

Laurens is in a rush for it, and Jefferson notices as soon as the spell is broken. He fumbles with the buttons of his shirt and Thomas sighs, amused by the neediness. He catches up to Jack—Jack, a name he was only permitted to use in the safety of his thoughts… or his sheets—slowly, numbed by the burn of his skin and by the booze warming his throat.

 _I want to make this last,_ he decides, because the goodbye is too sweet. Although, only _he_ knows that it is a goodbye.

America needed their ambassador to France back. John didn't need to know that, though. Not quite yet.

 _Tick, tock, John’s a clock_ —the mantra repeats in his head, warning him again of how desperate this release was needed. He's getting impatient with his lover, making frustrated grunts at the back of his throat. Thomas’ hands catch the hem of John's band shirt and pulls it over his head, pausing to admire the piercings in his nipples and the defined pecs of his chest. Though jagged, it was obvious the young man took great care of himself.

 _He's so beautiful._ Beautiful enough to make Jefferson hesitate. Not enough to make him stop.

He knots his fist in John’s cinnamon colored locks and tugs— _hard_. The boy growls in response—the first time he did, John whimpered and was sent back to Alexander, horny but unsatisfied—and hisses, bringing his head down to bite hard on Jefferson’s neck. He's learned. He understands that no longer will Thomas train this broken little boy to dress himself—they both have been through too much shit for him to be treated like a child anymore. He could play Daddy all  night, but he wasn’t looking to raise this boy from scratch—from the dirt of his heels.

John undoes the button and zipper of his jeans and takes Jefferson’s hand. He eyes the ring finger—eyes the pale skin where a ring used to sit—but says nothing as he guides the hand down past the hem of his boxers and around his cock. Thomas’ hand is slow, slip-sliding along his member because John is already slick with pre-cum.

Laurens thrusts into his hand awkwardly, unable to get a steady rhythm in his position of cowgirl on Thomas’ lap. He eventually feels the tip of his lover's other hand slide beneath his ass to his puckered hole, gasping in pain as two dry fingers are inserted. John lets go of his hand; he keeps going, just like the boy wants him to. Laurens dips his head to press kisses alongside of his jaw, enjoying the feeling of his cock and ass being worked into bliss.

Jefferson turns his head sharply at the action, his hand briefly pausing what it's doing. _Don't._ Laurens gets the message loud and clear, nibbling on his ear instead. The speed in which the older man pistons his cock increasing, obviously a desperate attempt to draw a sound from his lover. John moves his mouth over his, bringing him in for an angry kiss. He rakes his tongue with his teeth, drawing away by pulling his bottom lip with him.

Its not enough. He needs _more_.

"Bedroom," he whispers against Jefferson’s ear, his lips sending chills down his back. It's the first thing he's said verbally since they sat down for drinks four hours ago—after most of the guests from the party earlier had either passed out or left—, and it sounds too loud in the room. John punctuates the statement with a tender kiss behind his ear before slipping himself off of his hand and standing up. Thomas’ hand curls loosely on the inside of his thigh and Laurens says, "Come on."

Jefferson brushes over his zipper with fingers still wet from the younger of the two’s cock. The metal teeth shine as they pull apart, and John’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips. Thomas licks back a shaky breath as he pulls himself out, lips dark as the head in his hand, wet and swollen.

Laurens would go down on his knees, give him something so he would stop smirking that smug 'oh honey' look everytime they wound up this way. But Thomas has other ideas, because he bends him over the table and pins his arms behind his back—growling something that sounds too crude for his ears to pick up. John blushes at the way he's so hard at the sound of his voice—at the sound of his _degradation_.

The intention of the action does not fall on deaf ears. _I'm in charge, here, Laurens. I make the commands._

John tells him to be quick—to stop dallying along because if they were doing this here, they needed to be quick before someone caught them. He spares a glance for the guest bedroom door, snorts softly when he remembers that Alex and Laf had both crashed there when they’d been too drunk to drive home. Feels dirty, knowing he’s fucking this man just feet from where his best friend rests.

Thoughts of Alex are quite literally fucked from his brain when Thomas pushes his cock inside—lubed only with the spit and precum from John’s dick. He hisses and his nails scrape at the mahogany table—he can practically hear Thomas’ bitching about it later—before pushing himself further back on Jefferson’s length. He too hisses, because Laurens is so damn tight and it feels so good to have him. Growling his name, he presses harder against the freckled-boy and he twists around to stare at him. The expression on his face is bliss.

_There is no mercy within these walls._

John spreads his legs a bit further, looks over his shoulder and doesn't say a word. Eyes say what needs saying, and that's just the dynamics of their relationship. It takes a second for Jefferson to set a satisfying pace—sparing a glance at Laurens whenever he picks up a little speed. The heel of his hand steadies the small of his back, pushing down for an arch.

Laurens pushes against Thomas, needy for more while he fills him, spreading him wide. His breath leaves a trail of heat on his neck that shoots right down his spine, meets the heat of his balls slapping lewdly against his thighs as he moves in quicker and harder thrusts. His friction is catching fire setting a spark through her body. John hates the way that fire makes him feel good, when it's supposed to burn him down.

 _This is wrong,_ he thinks. _This is so, so wrong._ But it feels too right.

Jefferson uses one hand to dance a few fingers along the member while he fucks him, because his main focus is getting him off. John pushes himself on him in response, slips his hand between his legs to guide Thomas’. Their fingers twine together, both jacking him off, as he urges him to fuck him harder.

And then they’re there, where the world barely exists to them, he shudders and clenches around him. Thomas is coming with him, his head tossed back and his eyes wrenched shut as the moment swallows him whole.

John cries out Thomas’ name as he comes, cock jerking and spilling over the dining room table and his stomach. Jefferson is quick to slap his hand around the younger man’s mouth, mumbling into her cedar sea of locks, **“Shh, or else we’ll get caught.”**

The prospect of getting caught makes his cock give a promising twitch.

They relax afterwards, still in the same position. John doesn't move and neither does he—at least, until they hear the creaking of the bed in the guest room and they have to make a mad dash for his bedroom. Once there, they both fall into the bed, laughing and naked—stripped raw of more than their clothes. Jefferson pulls him into his side and his hand splays across his stomach. He presses his lips to the top of John's head and they stay there, too exhausted and spent to do much more moving.

The guilt sets in, in these moments. As the two of them realize not only what they’re doing, but how much it’ll hurt those they’re betraying if it was found out. John presses into Jefferson absentmindedly, willing the feelings of embarrassment and shame to disappear—if only for a few more moments.

Thomas gathers John’s hair into his hand, pulling it away from his sweat-sheened skin to expose the freckled flesh of his neck. Laurens turns so that his back is to him so that he could play with his hair some more—an after-sex habit of theirs. The scant instances where he isn’t just a fuck-buddy, an affair, a secret. Where Thomas’ love is _his_ , no matter how rented.

The man's tongue swipes along the skin, suckles at his exposed neck, lazy and relaxed. It’s enough for Laurens, who’s so desperate to feel like he’s loved, to close his eyes and pretend that this isn’t a temporary fix for the two of them.

Still, John can't help but feel as if he's trying to say something with his actions that he can't say with words. That he's trying to say goodbye, somehow.

"Don't leave me, Jefferson," John whispers at the thought, even though he's already half-asleep. To anyone else, it would sound as though he’s asking Thomas to spend the night. But between the two of them, they both understand the deeper meaning behind it. Thomas’ arm wraps tightly around John’s waist, but he doesn't say another word.

He doesn't need to—he's tired of lying to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forbidden love Thaurens? Yes please


	45. Unexplored Battlefronts (George/Gilbert) [Part I of WWII AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette first meets General George Washington through a letter. He doesn’t regret even the smallest moment of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In 1940s America, Person A meets Person B through a pen pal program for soldiers. After writing each other for months, Person B stops responding to Person A’s letters. Why?
> 
> this is supposed to be a wwii series with thaurens & theogelica but idk if i should go through with it. thoughts?
> 
> Gilbert is seventeen here, and George thirty-eight. Yes, I realize homsexuality wasn’t really such a thing you could freely talk about in the forties and black Generals were usually only the head of all-black battalions, but for the sake of creative freedom, I didn’t so much explore the political fronts of the 1940s war-torn America.

**c. 1940-1941**

They meet through the boarding school that Gilbert attends in America, though it isn’t quite a meeting. When the school instructor tells them about the War, about all the men being sent to the battlefield to fight for the nation’s freedom, Gilbert’s entire class becomes quiet—all of them amazed by the patriotism that the soldiers showed by going to the frontlines. Including the young French student that usually sits at the back, spending his days daydreaming and completely ignoring his studies. Though a dreamer he may be, even _he_ knows that the war had the potential to drag on for years—possibly decades—because the US was not going to allow the Nazi’s to win. That was no option.

Not only that, but most of the students’ older siblings had already been drafted into the military—had already seen the frontlines, some dying on them. Including Lafayette’s older sister, who had gone to be a nurse for the Navy. Every student in the classroom wanted to help, despite their youth. His class had been emptying more and more by the day with kids running off to serve their country—the latest to have gone off to join the fighting being Gilbert’s best and only friend, Alexander Hamilton.

He admired their bravery. Wished that he had been smart enough not to get caught when he tried to enlist under a fake age. Or rather, that he’d been smart enough not to tell his uncle—who marched down to the recruitment office and dragged him back home by his ear, ranting about how he had no idea how romanticized the war had become and how he wasn’t ready for things of that nature.

However, the teacher presents them with an alternative to fighting, another way to help the military men get through the war. Letters. It was a pen pal program setup between the school curriculum and the military—students learned how to write formal letters as a part of their schooling and in exchange the soldiers got someone to talk to outside of the battlefield. For their new assignment, the kids are presented with a small file that contains some information about who they’ll be writing. A picture of their soldier, a little bit about them, and where they were currently deployed.

Gilbert nearly falls out of his chair with excitement and flush when he sees that he gets George Washington, a famed army General that had led attacks from the allies on French soil and had become sort of a war hero in the neighboring countries—the first internationally recognized black war hero at that. He remembers being in France at the start of the war with his mother when the radio began talking of the man's exploits, looking to the older woman as she held hope in her eyes and murmured French prayers.

He remembers that flustered feeling he got stirring in his belly when he opened the newspaper one morning to see the hardened General’s face atop an entire page boasting of his exploits. He still had the newspaper cutout hanging on the back of his bedroom door. Though he knew it was wrong, he kissed it every morning before school.

Gil knows exactly what he wants to say, and starts on his letter the second he’s got the paper on his desk.

When Gilbert receives his first response from George, he’s ecstatic. He almost trips over himself getting the mail one morning after school, shoving Thomas out of the way when he goes towards the mailbox. Though Jefferson looks annoyed at his cousin’s clumsiness, he says nothing—scowling at him but remaining quiet as he ascends the steps to Monticello, the Jefferson manor. Gilbert hangs back from his cousins, waiting for all of them to be in the house before opening the letter. Immediately, his cheeks flush.

 _Dearest Lafayette, I cannot express how gleeful I am to have received a letter from you on this day, February 3rd of 1940._ Though feeling a little childish, Gilbert can still barely repress his squeal of excitement as he brings the letter close to his heart, cheeks burning a bright red. He ascends the staircase to the manor, eyes scanning each word of the letter—glued to the penmanship of the General and the way his letters loop into each other, how he doesn’t dot his ‘i’ or how he forgot to cross a ‘t’. He nearly trips over the staircase with how deeply engrossed he is of the General’s words, completely ignoring both his Aunt and Uncle as they greet him. George talks of everything from the War, to the picture that Gil had sent of himself, to his favorite foods and music.

By the time he comes to the end of the note, Gil is positively smitten with the General. If the sinful feelings he’d harbored for the other man before had been nothing but a passing fancy, he feels as though he’s madly in love with this small piece of General Washington clutched in his fingers. He knows of ‘homosexuality’, had known since he was a young child that he was very deeply flawed in that aspect, but he can’t bring himself to care too much about the sin when there are so many butterflies flitting throughout his stomach. It’s obvious this crush will consume him, _has_ consumed him, and he knows he’ll have to deal with the issues of that later.

However, he’s too taken with the letter to do much other than sit down and write George another one.

For months, the two of them exchange correspondence each other. Each post that passes between the two of them becoming more intimate, each word put down to paper becoming more significant in meaning. Long after the program ends for the school year, and most of the students in his classroom have lost contact with their old penmate—except for Thomas, who quickly becomes just as eager and quick to getting to mailbox as his cousin had—the young student and the war-hero write each other. With each passing day, Gil feels as though he can trust the other man. There is something about the energy that radiates from the words put to paper that makes him completely confident in his relationship with George. So much so that he eventually manages—though extremely nervously, with great sickness in his stomach as he puts the letter in the post—to confess his interest in the male sex.

George stops writing him after that letter, though. Everyday after school, the teenager goes to check the post. And everyday, there is no letter from George Washington. Not even a message just to let him know that he’s alright. It doesn’t take long for the young Frenchman to begin believe he’s lost him for good after a tragic miscalculation of comfort. He had thought that he and George were close enough to share that sort of thing with each other, but it quickly becomes very obvious that he had been horribly wrong. A million things run through the frightened young man’s head—what if George was disgusted with him now because he too believed the horrible things that people said about men of his nature, or what if George had contacted local Virginian police to alert them of his sodomy, or even worse… what if George had died in battle?

For three months following that cursed mistake of a confession, Gil walks around the streets of his small Virginian town riddled with anxiety and depression. Every policeman he comes across on the street, every man he dares look at for too long, every newspaper about the war, every single thought he has of the captivating General Washington sends his stomach twisting in painful knots. He stops eating as often. He doesn’t sleep well. He even begins to have fainting spells, where he’ll pass out in the middle of a task and wake up in bed with a cool towel over his face. Aunt Jane changes his studies home so that he doesn’t have to go to school, she gets so worried about his health. Hired doctors file in and out of the residence, all of them making guesses on this sudden illness that has overcome him but none of them ever coming close to the true cause.

All he does anymore is lie in bed, listening to the newscaster on the war station give facts about the new changes in the day-to-day life of the World War.

Then, one day, there’s a knock on the door. Gilbert is in the living room on that day, attempting to cope with a cold he’d caught from fainting in the middle of a storm. Aunt Jane had wanted to better keep an eye on him during the day while she worked, when she was hemming dresses for the women of Shadwell in the parlor. At around noon, when she’s just finished up a wedding gown for a local friend, there are several sharp raps on the door, Gil barely looks away from the book he’d only been half-reading—he simply sinks beneath the pile of blankets that his Aunt had covered him with in hopes that whoever was there wouldn’t try to make conversation.

“Excuse me ma’am,” a deep, strong voice says a moment after he hears his Aunt open the door. Keening his ears—both out of curiosity and boredom—Gilbert listens to the man that speaks, struggling to hear through the fabric of his blanket. “I’m looking for a Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette. I have been corresponding with him for awhile now, and I’d very much like to see him.”

 _Wait… he’s looking for me?_ Gilbert thinks, sitting up on the couch now with interest. The quick motion dizzies him, and he struggles with a bout of nausea for a moment before returning his attention the conversation. Corresponding for awhile now? He scans his brain for anyone that he had sent letters to recently, but the only person he thinks of is…

“George!” Gilbert exclaims as the realization dawns on him, tripping over his blankets as he scrambles to the doorway of the manor. He pauses in the parlor to fix his curls into a tight bun and straighten out the wrinkled clothes he’d thrown on earlier that morning—wishing he’d known the man would be there earlier so that he could’ve dressed appropriately. Aunt Jane is confused for a moment—Gilbert had shown such an excitement for months now, and the quick switch in moods takes the woman off guard. But then her nephew sends her a pleading look, standing beside her in front of the war hero, and she seems to get the hint—he’d like some privacy with this man. Muttering something about having to go out for more sewing supplies, she quickly gathers her purse and coat before excusing herself from the two—waving goodbye and leaving them alone in the large manor.

Gilbert looks back towards the other man, disbelief obviously painted across his features. The young man had never seen the man face-to-face, but now that he has, he realizes how truly beautiful he is. It’s obvious that the General had at least cleaned up before coming over—his face is closely-shaven, a vast difference from that old news article clipping that had shown him sporting a full beard. And there isn’t a speck of dirt or a wrinkle in sight on the forest green uniform—the badges, medals and ribbons shining beneath the warm Virginia sun. His dark eyes are war-weathered and have wrinkles in the corners, but his mouth possesses deep smile lines and adorable dimples. Gilbert can feel himself falling in love with him all over again. “George, what are you _doing_ here? What about the War?”

“I received a medical leave,” the General says, smiling down at his young friend. His hand shoots up to tuck a stray curl behind the younger man’s ear, and Gil melts into the action—eyes fluttering at the feeling of his calloused hands that press against the side of his cheek. “I got shot in the knee in Italy, and they’re giving me time to recover before I deploy again. Doctors say it’ll at least be a year.”

They stand in the doorway for a moment, Gilbert enjoying the feel of George’s presence and the faint smell of the older man’s cologne wafting off of his body before he pulls away and ushers him inside, picking up the two duffel bags that had accompanied his war hero on his trip. Once the door is safely closed and locked, Gil turns back to the man and wrings his hands in front of him.

“George I… I hope… I hope you don’t…” the words escape him, and with every moment that ticks by, the knots of anxiety return to haunt his stomach. He feels nauseous again, dizzy… almost as though he might faint, before George steadies his soldiers and brings his focus back to what's important.

“If this is about what you said in your last letter, you hush all of that right this moment. Oh, Gilbert…” he sighs, cupping the side of the young man's face again. Gil closes the space between them, his hand darting out to lace his fingers with George’s. His heart skips several beats when he notices the soldier doesn’t immediately pull away from the small act of affection. “I thought… I was scared of my feelings about you, too. Do you know that? I really was. I loved… I _love_ you, but I also know what happens to men who… who…”

“George,” Gilbert whispers, eyes finding his. He shakes his head slightly, a small comfort for the two of them. For right now, they didn’t have to use the words. They didn’t have to put a term to these forbidden emotions swirling like a cesspool between the two of them. Those things could come later. Right now, all the Frenchman wants is to just bask in the feeling of an enormous weight of relief being lifted from his shoulders. Revel in the idea that his General didn’t hate him, or wasn’t disgusted by him—that he shared the same feelings.

Labels were useless when they had all of this love between the two of them.

“But… I realize now, that I can’t be fearful anymore. As as much I am, I am more afraid of losing you than anything else in the world. Than the war, than the possibility of prosecution, than death. I couldn’t begin to imagine a life without you again, especially when I’m sent back to battle. You were my sunshine in that warzone, and I desperately need you. Gil, we _can_ do this together. We can’t be normal, we’ll never live normal lives that you see between man and wife. But we can be very happy together.”

“Oh, George. You’ll be given a blue discharge if we’re found out. Even worse, we’ll be separated, or killed or… or you’ll be _hurt_.”

“Why should I continue to fight for a country that won’t fight for me anyways? Why should I care about the consequences if I don’t take a chance to enjoy the action?” George insists, his grip on Gilbert’s hand tightening for just a moment. The younger man's eyes sparkle, both with tears and an overabundance of joy and admiration. He realized that things would be difficult for them—homsexuality _was_ illegal, and if either of them were caught, they could face anything from forced castration to prison to death. But standing in the middle of the foyer of his Uncle’s mansion, holding hands with the one of the most esteemed war heros of this time, Gilbert can’t bring himself to think too much of it. He is happy, for now, and that is all he needs.

Standing on the tips of his toes, Gil presses his lips against the older man’s—deepening the kiss when George cups his face tightly and pulls him closer. Their mouths move together in perfect synchronization as George’s hands slide down to his waist—gripping him tightly, keeping them so close together they could almost fuse into one being. Gil can’t help but notice that his lover—lover, how _absurd_ —tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, and that the light layer of stubble on his chin scratches at him. They only pull away when Gil remembers that his family would be home soon, and they couldn’t be _too_ brazen about this.

“George, I… I _love_ you.”

“I love you, too, my love,” he responds, smiling like Gilbert was the sun, moon and stars. The Frenchman can feel himself falling head over heels in love all over again. He laughs when George crouches down to sweep him off his feet, the sounds of joy echoing throughout the empty house. Carrying him towards the staircase, George grins down at him. “Now come here, you silly boy, you never told me the rest about that dream you had where you ran off to the circus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i read two articles about homsexuality in the 1940s that helped formulate the mixed sort of secrecy and candidness of george & gilbert’s romance. if you’re interested, they are here:
> 
> http://www.latimes.com/local/california/la-me-adv-lgbt-archive-20150830-story.html  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1900%E2%80%9349_in_LGBT_rights


	46. Missing In Action (John/Thomas) [Part II of WWII AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In military terminology, desertion is the abandonment of a duty or post without permission and is done with the intention of not returning. In military terminology, John Laurens is a war criminal. In military terminology, so is Thomas Jefferson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person A is a soldier that went AWOL after watching his battalion execute a group of teenage soldiers. Person B is helping them hide from the military officials looking for them.
> 
> (WWII AU, part II of II) I dunno why I’m doing this series (maybe its because the current political climate is scarily similar to the one from the war days before and during the Holocaust) but I do know that I’m having a little fun exploring it. I am fascinated by both of the world wars and do a lot of research on them for fun, so it feels nice to be able to have my two hobbies crossover. I chose the prompt of desertion for Laurens because c’mon… he would so desert if the military’s actions weren’t morally sound. hopefully, the next time I do a series, it’ll be for the seven deadly sins.

**c. 1942-1943**

When Thomas Jefferson is shocked awake in the middle of the night by a loud banging on the door of the house he shares with his family, he immediately begins to worry for the couple sleeping in the room over. Ever since George had returned from the war, he and Lafayette spent all of their time together—there wasn’t a moment they weren’t apart, they'd even gotten some perverted version of common law married. Lafayette flounced about Shadwell with a diamond on his ring finger and Washington walking around with a gold band on his like idiots—each speaking of some made-up French wife when asked about it. Though their immediate family knew the truths of their relationship, it was still a secret that needed desperately to be kept elsewhere. And for a moment, Thomas worries that it hadn't been.

As he takes his flashlight down the flight of stairs with him to see who could possibly be at the door at this time of night, all sorts of horrid images run through his brain of his cousin and his secret lover being strung up and castrated by a mob of angry Virginians—especially after that incident where the Mayor’s daughter almost caught the two of them in bed together. The images are made more realistic when Thomas remembers that George would be shipping out to Germany the next morning—they had probably figured that it would better to be now than miss their chance of killing the sodomite.

However, he is—either pleasantly or unpleasantly, the debate of that would be saved for later—surprised to find not a mob of angry townsfolk standing on the porch of the manor, but the freckle-faced soldier he’d befriended two years ago during a pen pal program standing at his door. The young man is soaking wet and shivering from the cold and heavy downpour of April rain.  _ Corporal John Laurens. _

“John?” Thomas asks, reaching up to wipe the sleep from his eyes in the confusion. He shines the light off the porch and into the night—looking for some sort of trap to be sprung, or waiting to wake up from the strange dream. Neither of those things comes, which only makes the worry lines on his forehead even deeper. “What are you doing here? What happened? Are you alright? What happened to being in Japan?”

“Let me in, Thomas. Please,” John pleads, his eyes wild and desperate as he looks over his shoulder. Jefferson eyes him strangely, naturally hesitant. He’d only met the young soldier once before when he’d come back stateside briefly for Christmas. Despite the fact that they’d been friends for two years, exchanging quite  _ intimate _ letters, Thomas still didn’t particularly know the man very well. After all, they'd only met in person once—and it had been very briefly—but all of a sudden the soldier had shown up on his doorstep. In the midst of a  _ world _ war.

“What happened, John? What’s wrong?” he asks warily, brows furrowing nervously. The look of exhaustion in the soldier’s eyes quickly unsettles him though, so he steps aside so that John can get into the house—hurriedly locking the door behind him. When he turns around, John is standing in the middle of the foyer—using his equally wet undershirt to attempt to dry his hair. “Laurens?”

“Thomas, you should’ve  _ seen _ the shit they did… in Japan… it was… oh  _ god _ ,” John’s eyes are shocked with red and brimming with tears when he turns around, blending seamlessly with the rainwater still on his face. “They were kids, Thomas. The oldest couldn’t have been more than seventeen. And they were jus’ executed. In cold blood, right in front o’ my  _ face _ . I couldn’t… I couldn’t fight that stupid fuckin’ war no more.”

“What are you talking about, John?” Jefferson asks, guiding him through the manor to the closest bathroom. If he's being completely honest with himself, seeing the other man in such a distressed state was not only worrying him but breaking his very heart. All the pictures he'd ever been sent of John, the freckled man had been sporting a bright smile—even when his eyes betrayed the truth of his psyche. He'd grown accustomed to Laurens’ happiness, had even become dependant on it for his own, in a way. To see him this way was absolutely crushing.

He hands the soldier one of the warm, fluffy towels from the rack and watches with straying eyes as the man strips of his clothes. He spots scars—whipping scars, by the looks of it—forming almost a sort of railroad track across his back, crisscrossing over each other with varying degrees of freshness. The newest can't be but a year old. Strong muscles move and work beneath tanned, freckled skin as John sheds his soaking wet clothing—stirring a shameful pit of desire in Thomas’ stomach.

Jefferson only abashedly averts his eyes when John looks over his shoulder to speak again, voice sounding more broken and sad with each word.

“I'm talkin’ about the outright murder of  _ children _ . My platoon came ‘cross a group of Japanese child soldiers. There was this massacre in Nanking before the war… and it left a lot of innocent folks dead. So my platoon got their revenge. Some of them raped those boys, others just flat out tortured ‘em. Then they shot them in ditches and took body parts as souvenirs. Heads, eyes, hands. I couldn't stand it after that. I'd watched these fuckers sodomize a Nazi’s wife and child, massacre entire villages… I couldn't  _ do _ it anymore, Thomas. I refuse to go down in history as a  _ monster _ . I deserted. Took a refugee boat leavin’ Japan here to America, and hiked from California to Virginia. To  _ you _ .”

John turns fully at his last words, bringing a bruised hand up to Thomas’ face—pushing his kinky curls from his cheeks and staring at him affectionate yet sorrowful green eyes. Jefferson almost leans into the touch, almost allows himself to be comforted by the fact that the man he'd disgracefully fallen in love with was  _ finally _ here—but then those awful mental images of Gilbert and George being hung and castrated cruelly return, and he pulls away from the touch as if it'd scalded him.

“Oh my  _ God _ , John! Desertion is a war crime!” Thomas exclaims, instead of dwelling too long on that fluttery feeling in his chest. “You're a  _ traitor _ !”

“You don't think I know that!? I already know I'm bein’ court-martialed, the military is lookin’ for me—I almost had a run-in in with an Army base in Texas, and my father already told me that if I go back to North Carolina he'll turn me in the second he catches a look at my face. But I'd rather commit  _ this _ war crime than murder  _ any more _ innocent people. I went to war because I didn't believe in what Germany was doing to those poor jewfolk. But I don't believe in what US troops are doing to those commies either.  _ Please _ , Thomas. I need you to hide me out for awhile.”

Giving a frustrating grunt, Jefferson turns away from the young soldier. There's a conflict stirring in his mind, and he wrings his hands together nervously as he debates himself. 

On one hand, he doesn't want John around. Not only because the man was a war criminal and a traitor—which put far too much heat on a household already helping to cover up one crime—but because he'd mistakenly fallen in love with the young soldier through their letters. They'd been writing for several years at this point, but that had been something Thomas knew he could handle. Distance—the extent of their communication being held within the pieces of paper they sent each other. As long as John wasn't a material temptation standing before him, as long as there was no crime to commit, the young man could quell the desires that waged wars within him. He could bury it and lock it away, marry some nice Christian girl just like his mother wanted him to and pretend that his affections were nothing but a schoolyard crush. 

But with John here, in this house with him… especially after months of seeing just how happy Gilbert was whenever his George was around… Thomas just isn't so sure he'll be able to control himself. The young soldier certainly wasn’t terribly hard on the eyes and he was far too good of a man for Thomas to resist falling for his mind all over again. The thoughts of loving touches and late nights spent together, wrapped within each other’s arms and simply enjoying being together… Jefferson had tried to burn them out of his mind and lock them away. But now they were no longer wishful. If he gave in, if he just conceded to take a taste of that cursed apple…

“I don't know, Laurens. I'm already helping one too many criminals.”

“What're you talking about?”

“General George Washington and my cousin are… ahem… engaged.  _ Illegally _ , of course, but the idiots say they're in love and Lafayette has always been the more childish of us… we don’t have the heart to deny them. Of course, my cousin is… well, he's got the wrong fixings to be publicly married to a General,” Jefferson realizes he’s nervously rambling and turns on his heel to face John—who had stopped in the midst of running himself a warm shower. Sitting there on the edge of their bathtub with wide-shocked eyes, he looks positively adorable and Thomas hates how  _ that’s  _ the first thought that comes to mind.

He barely gives a passing thought to the fact that John doesn’t even miss a beat at the thought of Washington being attracted to men.

“General Washington? Is  _ here _ ?” Laurens asks nervously, rising from his spot on the edge of the bathtub to peek outside the bathroom door—his eyes dart wildly around before he closes the door and locks it, pressing his back against it and fluttering his eyes closed.

“Yes, he's asleep upstairs. Why is there something wrong with him being here?”

“I have to get out of here. He’s known for being merciless with deserters… he’ll send me straight to prison, and I  _ can’t  _ go there. They’ll kill me, Thomas and I don’t wanna die over somethin’ like  _ this _ .”

“Hey, hey, no! No, you don't have to go  _ anywhere _ ,” Thomas exclaims, placing his hands on John’s shoulders in order to keep him still from where he’d begun pacing. If only just to calm that deranged, cornered animal look that’s in his eye. He knew all too well from living with the General what a cornered soldier looked like, and it wasn’t pretty. “He's leaving for Germany tomorrow—first thing in the morning, Lafayette is driving him down to the docks to ship off. You can sleep in my room tonight, and in the morning we'll see about getting you to Canada.”

“So you’ll help me? You understand why I did what I did?”

“Of course, John.”

Admittedly, Thomas doesn’t fully understand what this promise entails… might not really grasp what he’s signing himself up for. He’s still quite young, and naive in his own right when it came to matters of the law. Though significantly smarter than most boys his own age—managing to find an excuse well enough to dodge the draft  _ was  _ smart as hell—he still hadn’t been smart enough to make the effort of finding out the consequences of harboring a war fugitive. And due to this oversight, when he returns home from grocery shopping ten months after agreeing to let John Laurens stay with the Jefferson family, he is met with the consequences of this.

It’s a fairly snowy day in Shadwell, Virginia—the old Monticello plantation looks almost like one of those catalog homes, sitting prettily against the backdrop of the greyed skies and drizzle of snow and the frozen manmade lake in front of it reflecting the trees surrounding the manor. To his knowledge, Thomas and John are the only two staying at Monticello through the Winter. Lafayette had moved down to the Mount Vernon plantation near the Potomac on request from George to handle some of the manors affairs in his absence and would be there indefinitely. And most of his family had retired to their home in New Zealand to wait out the cold weather, especially since his sister was terribly prone to colds.

For nearly three months, Thomas and John had the vast Monticello estate to themselves. It had been a lovely experience, including many nights of passionate sex in front of the living room fireplace. To Thomas’ knowledge, there was no one that knew of John Laurens’ whereabouts. According to the military, he was  _ supposed  _ to be MIA or deserted.

Jefferson had begun to get notions of living out a long, happy life with his soldier—unbothered by the American military or the war. Of course, he’s young. Naive. Though, a bit too smart for these fantasies. He should’ve known better.

For as he pulls up to the snowy, frozen fields of his home, his stomach immediately sinks to his toes at the sight of the local Sheriff’s car sitting in the driveway—obviously either waiting for Thomas or come to take John away for good. 

Once he reaches the driveway and has safely parked beside the Sheriff’s car, Thomas tries his best to come off as innocently as possible. He wouldn’t want any of his strange behavior to tip off the policeman if he wasn’t there for any important reasons.

“Good evening, officer,” Thomas calls out plainly, adjusting the bags of groceries in his arms so that he can pull his coat tighter against the cold. Sheriff Seabury turns on his heel rapidly at his voice, shock evident all over his pale face. It takes all of Jefferson’s muscles to keep a neutral expression, and not frown at the odd reaction. “How can I help you this evening?”

“Well, Thomas. I must say, I am a bit surprised. Your father asked me to come by. Said there was a missing soldier holding you hostage and demanding board for the winter. Is that true?”

“H-holding me hostage?” Thomas stutters out, confusion now completely taking over his countenance—despite his efforts to remain as calm and collected as possible. Why would his father do such a thing? It was one matter to call the police to the residence on a wellness check, knowing that John was there and could be found out. But another matter entirely to tell the local Sheriff that not only was there a deserted hiding out in their home, but that said deserted soldier was anything but a friend and was actually holding Thomas hostage. “I admit, I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.”

Seabury nods, looking around once more. He’d always been a bit of a mousy young man, so Thomas honestly expects him to take his word for it and go. Besides, even if what Peter Jefferson had reported was true—Seabury was a white Sheriff in the very deep South. He had no obligation to any young black man, even one whose grandfather had amassed large amounts of wealth by selling off some of Monticello’s land following his childless slave master’s death. If there  _ was  _ a soldier in there, threatening harm onto the prodigal Jefferson son, it was of a high probability that Seabury would care more about a local white shopkeeper’s home getting vandalized than a threat on Thomas Jefferson’s life.

Which, of course, is why Thomas is once again shocked when Seabury rests his hand on his gun says, “Well, I better have a look around. Just in case. Make sure you're safe.”

Swallowing thickly, Thomas gives a curt nod and fumbles through his pockets for his keys. What else is he to do? If he denies the Sheriff, he might draw even more suspicion and the manor would be searched anyway. He can only hope that John might’ve well had the sense to hear the car rolling up or the conversation going on and hide away.

When the door swings open, Thomas takes a sigh of relief at the sight of the place completely desolate. He makes quick business of the groceries, setting them on the dining room table before turning back to Seabury—who is taking small peeks around corners and into closets, as though he’s looking for a monster under a child’s bed. 

“See?” Thomas says quietly, as he shrugs out of his coat and goes to light the fireplace. Doing his very best to make himself seem polite but simultaneously nonchalant, he even offers the man a seat. “No deranged soldier here. I assure you, Mr. Seabury, I am perfectly fine. The house is empty, save for myself.”

“I see… you mind if I ask why you didn’t go with your family? I hear their property in New Zealand is beautiful this time of year. Warm weather year round, it is, ain’t it?”

“Yessir,” Thomas mumbles, before clearing his throat and straightening his back. As he does, he sees John—when Seabury had turned his back to face Thomas in his spot in the dining room, John had apparently snuck from his hiding space in a cupboard. It takes all the nerves in Thomas’ body to remain focused on the conversation. “Last year we had vandals on the property when everyone left. I offered to stay behind so that Father didn’t have to pay so much to the insurance company this year.”

“Ah, I see…” Samuel says, seemingly giving the place his stamp of approval. He’s just about to turn to leave when he catches a glimpse of John in the hallway mirror and gives a loud shout. “Hey! Stop right there!”

“John, run!” Thomas shouts, closing the space between himself and the Sheriff by tackling the officer. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, attacking a fully-armed white cop like this—it goes against the very nature of his entire upbringing. He’d always been taught to keep his head down and his nose clean. Obey every law there was, speak with propriety in his tongue. Give them no reason to bother him, and they wouldn’t.

But it seems he’s willing going against his instinctual nature for the love of the renegade soldier. 

Samuel is cursing and shouting, but all Thomas can focus on is the gun. His hand is right over the barrel of the small revolver, and if Sheriff Seabury could get his finger on the trigger, it would be blown right to bits. All he has to do is give it one good yank to pull it entirely from the smaller man's grasp, but it’s a difficult task with the Sheriff attempting to use what little weight he has to his advantage—slamming his upper body against Thomas’.

Adrenaline pumps through Thomas’ veins as Seabury gets a better grip on the gun, and he stares deep into the other man’s angry, startled green eyes. He knows that he’s using this battle—that in a few seconds, the Sheriff would slip his finger onto the trigger and pull. Briefly, he wonders if there will be any body for his family to bury. Or would he be ripped to bits by the angry white citizens of Shadwell?

He hopes John has gotten out safely. Hopes that the man had already taken the car and driven as far as he can, away from the inevitable mess. He prays that John stays safe.

Thomas lets go of the gun the second two loud shots ring through the air and closes his eyes in anticipation. There’s no pain, there’s nothing. He wonders if he’s already dead, or if this is what dying feels like.

But then Seabury slumps back, and Thomas’ eyes open again to find the Sheriff’s cold and dead—staring straight ahead at the ceiling. Looking around, Thomas’ eyes land on his lover—who still has the gun in hand, eyes furious, and breathing hard. He recognizes the weapon as something that John had come to Monticello with, having stolen it from the armory when he deserted.

Eventually, the blood leaking from the holes in Seabury’s head begins to stain the carpet, forming a wine red halo around his head. 

“John…” Thomas exhales, eyes filled with fear as the realization of what just happened settles over him. John Laurens, deserter, war fugitive, trained soldier had just killed Samuel Seabury. The town Sheriff of Shadwell, Virginia. This certainly meant two things—Thomas Jefferson was now also a criminal, and he was very quickly going to become a fugitive as well. “What have you done?”

Laurens ignores him, his expression falling into something steely and cold as he drops the still smoking gun beside the dead man's body and turns towards the staircase. “Pack some clothes. We’re getting out of Virginia before someone comes looking for Captain-Save-A-Lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to read more about deserters and the people that harbor them (especially those during WWII), here are the links I used for research: [max punishment for desertion: dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay, five years imprisonment & max punishment for harboring a deserter: fines & three years imprisonment]  
> https://www.npr.org/2013/06/17/189275754/wwii-deserters-stories-of-men-who-left-the-front-lines  
> https://military.findlaw.com/criminal-law/failure-to-report-for-duty-awol-and-other-charges.html  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desertion  
> https://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/text/18/1381


	47. A Broom Closet (Angelica/Thomas) [[NSFW]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of well-deserved worship for his perfect girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “How am I expected to stay quiet when you’re being such a tease?”
> 
> some thomgelica because I’ve got a shitton of recycled work and halfway done fics in my docs just sitting there so imma edit them all to fit the drabble system

Shh," Thomas whispers into her ear, running his hands along the smooth dark flesh of her sides. His right hand briefly plays with the wired edge of her bra before dancing away again, rubbing circular motions over the hidden bleeding rose tattoo right above her hip. Angelica moans despite his instruction, buries her fingers in the shoulders of the cloth of his shirt, bringing him down for a biting kiss. It's more teeth than it is tongue, and she gasps when he bites down hard on her bottom lip and tugs just slightly. Just the  _ right _ way.

**"How am I expected to stay quiet, when you're being such a tease?"** she pants in reply, her fingers move towards his pants, making quick work of his belt. Jefferson tuts lightly under his breath and grabs her wrists with one large hand, pressing them against the wall above her head. He gets another small gasp in reply, and smirks cockily to himself—she often called him transparent, and maybe he was, but when they were fucking he could read her like a goddamned children's book.

A few papers and boxes fall from the storage room closet at the sudden movement, falling over them messily and landing at their feet—earning a few hushed giggles from the pair. Outside, the home Angelica shared with her sisters is alive with the hustle and bustle of a rager. A homecoming party thrown for the eldest Schuyler’s temporary return from a University in London was in full swing, getting more and more out of hand by the minute—last she'd seen, Peggy and Gilbert were dancing on the island in the kitchen, their hips swaying, their eyes half-lidded from alcohol. And Peggy didn’t even drink, usually. She'd also seen Alexander heavily making out with several different girls earlier in efforts to purposely make his ex-girlfriend jealous, even going as far as to deliver a flat-handed smack to her own sister's ass, and that had been the breaking point for her. Angelica had grabbed her ex's long-time rival by the collar and dragged him to the back room, muttering some half-assed excuse to Eliza about a book report to look at.

Most everyone aside from Alexander knew far better than that, but yet they'd still found themselves locked in the closet because it makes the both of them feel better to be careful about the little tryst they engaged in together. Especially since Alexander had been in such a pissy mood ever since he'd seen the oldest Schuyler daughter began sporting fresh new hickeys with a renewed sense of pride. It was much easier to creep around than to deal with the temper tantrums the man had a habit of throwing, especially when it came to Angelica.

"Slow down, baby. I'll take good care of you, just let me," Thomas instructs, placing his mouth over her neck to pepper sweet little kisses and bites along the exposed skin. Her back arches in the contact, skin already so sensitive at the slightest of touches. Eager for some more friction, she pushes her breasts against his chest. Jefferson chuckles underneath his breath. God, he  _ knows _ she wants it. She  _ needs _ it. But he loved making her wait—loved it when she finally broke down and begged him to give her that little push.

His left hand keeps hers above her head and his right works the button on the tight denim jeans she'd been wearing, keeping his motions slow but satisfying. He pulls the zipper down slowly and she squirms underneath his gaze, way too eager to get her rocks off.  _ God, she is so damn beautiful. _

Thomas slowly releases her hands from his grip, but there's a fire in his eyes as he does that prevents her from moving out of the position, even though she has a freedom to do so. Its almost as if he’s got some sort of hypnotic control over her, and the idea makes her shudder.

"Keep them up there," he commands softly, pressing his lips against another tattoo right beneath her breast. She huffs slightly in annoyance but says nothing. Angelica has never been particularly vocal in the bedroom—once she got to a certain point, it was more or less up to whoever she was in bed with to figure out what she wanted or needed. Still, he knows that she loves to touch… loves that extra mile of connection that comes from being with your partner. For Thomas to deny her of that is the greatest holdout. "If you move your hands, Ang, I swear on everything I will stop."

She nods distractedly, obediently keeping her wrists planted firmly against the wall. Jefferson smiles up at her patronizingly, and she scowls back at him—a mask for the lovey-dovey smile she can feel growing on her expression.

"Good girl," he whispers, laughter and tequila on his tongue. Once again, his hands trail down her body—caressing her face, gently running between her breasts and over them. He pauses a moment to tweak one pierced nipple, earning a gratifying exclamation of surprise. Large smooth hands continue their tour of Angelica’s body, moving over the flat space between her hip bones and back down to the dark fabric of her jeans. With each trail of smooth cinnamon flesh explored, he slides further down her body—eventually crouching below her, between her legs with his knees on the carpeted floor. "Lift your hips for me, baby."

Angelica does as told, lifting her hips off the wall with quick feverence. Smirking, Thomas peers up at her through long eyelashes as he slides the fabric over her hips, down her thighs, stopping only at her knees. Her head is tossed back now, her eyes fluttering between open and closed, the soft bruised flesh of her bottom lip is pulled between her teeth. Anticipation wells up in the darkest pits of her stomach, the feeling of exposure paired with desire being absolutely ecstasy.

"Look at me," Thomas demands sharply, though there is no true malice in his voice. "Let me see you, babe."

Once more, Angelica follows her orders, feeling a bit vulnerable before this man—though she does trust him, no matter how cocky he might be. Her eyes flit open and she angles her head down, staring at him with lust-filled dark eyes that make him want to fuck her senseless into the wall. But he knows better—he knows it will be worth so much more if he treats her right and he knows that she  _ deserves  _ for him to treat her right. She wasn't a two-dollar whore, like Alexander had treated her—she was so much more than that and his mama taught him how to truly treat someone as beautiful as her like a woman.

"That's good," he praises, his voice husky with lust. Thomas pulls at her jeans until they're mostly pooled at the floor and she kicks her feet out of them the second she can, shoving them aside with her now-discarded blouse. She's bare before him now—wearing nothing but a pair of gorgeous lace black panties with a dangerous red frill. His eyes float back up to the matching lace black bra with the small red bow carefully placed between both her breasts, and he inhales sharply. Most of Angelica’s undergarments were simple and more convenient than sexy, so this was shit he'd never even seen before. It must've been brand new. She didn’t wear lingerie for just  _ any  _ occasion. It must've… oh lord. "Fuck… is this for  _ me _ ?"

Angelica nods slowly, trying to come with the right words through the haze of desire. She hated what this man managed to do to her—how he managed to make her so speechless, tongue-tied and often times confused by emotion. She was the most outspoken person any of the boys knew at yet a simple graze of his fingers left a lump in her throat.

"Bought it today. Thought you might like it—you usually love me in red," she admits a bit abashedly, which is only in character for her when she was with him. Thomas presses a loving kiss on her hip bone.

"You're so fucking beautiful, you know that, Angelica? You're just…" he trails off, feeling an insurmountable amount of affection for the girl laid bare before him. "God, I’m so glad I’m here with you."

She laughs at that, tossing her head back against the wall. "Shut up," she says, around a chest full of laughter. It isn’t a malicious laugh, but one of almost happiness, amusement. Jefferson gives her a final approving once-over before going back to his work—kissing up her leg from her ankle to her thigh. He pauses there, separating her legs just slightly so that his mouth could get closer to her sweet center. Lightly, Thomas trails his tongue up and over the skin there. Then, when his mouth reaches the hem of her panties, he gently tugs with his teeth until they're sliding over her hips.

Angelica must've been expecting for him to fuck her that night—first the brand new lingerie and now she's perfectly shaven for him. Jefferson just barely exhales, but his warm breath tickles her in a way that makes her bite the inside of her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Thomas—" she doesn't get to finish her rebuke for teasing because soon his tongue is delving inside of her. It's gentle and slow, so very fucking painstaking. But it's just right—just enough to make her cry out loudly. Instinctively, her fingers attempt to bury themselves in the curls at the back of his neck, but he draws away from her with a stern glare in his eyes.

"I told you I would stop," he says slowly, dominance dripping from his tone. Angelica nods fervently, placing her hands above her head again. With a satisfied smile, he returns to her perfectly shaven mound—licking the length of her before flicking his tongue under the hood of her clit. Her legs tremble and the position is a bit awkward, so he takes her left leg and hoists it over his shoulder. This allows him to dive deeper into her sweetness, and she tastes so fucking good that it's almost dizzying. He wonders how long it's been since he's properly ate her out and is ashamed when he realizes it's been too long.

His lapping is slow and tenuous at first for all his cockiness. He tastes her wetness and tests it, dipping into her one moment then flicking against her clit the next and pausing to pull her labia between his teeth. Angelica writhes under each of his little experiments, her body opening up to him when her mouth refuses to.

Thomas always had a magic mouth, full of tricks and sleight of tongue and teeth that seemed all too willing to saw her in half with its expertise. He was a god in the bedroom—Angelica could see why he walked with pomp and arrogance through the streets, everyone that had ever taken him to bed had spoken nothing but praise. Of course, he didn't go down on her as much as she did him—Thomas could admit he selfishly enjoyed being a receiver more than a giver—but that seemed to make everything better. It made it less of a sexual act done out of obligation and more of a treat done out of genuine care for his partner's release.  _ You've been really good, baby, _ his actions whisper every time he takes her into his mouth.  _ Let me show you  _ how  _ good. _

Shit, he’s just barely started and she already felt as if she were falling apart at the seams, as if the very fabric of her being was at the mercy of this man's tongue. She wonders why she’d waited so long to take Jefferson up on his offer of sex, though the wondering isn’t there for long—the reason started with ‘Alexander’ and ended with ‘Hamilton’.

Thomas’ lips enclose around her clit and he suckles on it gently. Angelica bucks her hips forward in ecstasy, as if that would somehow change how slowly he was planning on worshipping her. His left hand grips her hip and brings her even closer—so much so that his nose tickles her clit. His other hand makes itself useful by slipping two fingers inside of her, slowly pushing in centimeter by centimeter.

"God…  _ fuck _ ! Tommy,  _ please _ !" Angelica relents eventually, so tired of his holding out. She'd been trying to contain herself the entire time—see if she could come without having to beg him. But she needs him—needs to feel him slide inside of her and breathing hard in the crook of her neck and shoulder as he thrusts. Needs him to cup her ass and fuck her senseless—until her speech is slurred and her eyes are rolling back into her head. God, she fucking needs him and he's making her wait and it’s just not  _ fair  _ anymore.

"Please  _ what _ , angel? Tell me what you want," he demands sweetly, pulling away from her. Under the dim, flickering closet light his mouth glistens with her slick and she so desperately wants to touch. She wants to drag him up by his chin, kiss him messily and force him to do her proper—quit being such a goddamned tease and make her see stars.

"Please, Tommy, make love to me," she whispers. He smirks triumphantly, let's her leg fall from his shoulder. Jefferson stands slowly until he's towering over her, a predatory glint in his eyes. She loved it when he was like this—dominant, controlling. When they were in the bedroom usually, it was more her taking the reins or a battle to be on top. Angelica doesn't think she'll ever tell him how much she loved it when she was being controlled, being topped by a man who knows what he wants and how to get it.

A guilty pleasure, admittedly, but a pleasure nonetheless.

He unbuckles his own slacks quickly, shoving them down with his boxers in a hurry. All the while staring at her, daring her to look away and make him walk out the storage closet door. But even when she's submissive, Angelica is about as stubborn as a mule and she stares him down equally as hard. When his cock springs free from the constraint of fabric—slapping against his belly lewdly before standing at attention between his legs—she finally looks away. Her eyes travel down, and there's unmasked desire in her eyes. She wants him so bad.

Thomas doesn't bother coming up with some sly dirty talk like he usually does—he takes her wrists and locks both of her arms around his neck. Using both hands, he lifts her thighs until her legs are wound around his waist and the tip of his cock is pressing teasingly against her folds. She bucks her hips forward, sliding his tip slightly inside of her and Jefferson does everything in his power not to fuck wildly into her.

It may be what she wanted— but it just wasn't what she  _ deserved _ .

"Keep your legs around my waist, baby," he murmurs into her ear. Angelica nods dutifully and he plants one hand on the side of her head—using the other to steady his length and slowly push into her. She gasps and curses at the feeling of his length stretching her, finally abusing her allowance to touch by bringing him forward for another heated kiss. She can taste herself on him—sweet and almost impossibly lewd. His tongue runs over her bottom lip and then pokes around her mouth—testing out places he's already been before.

Thomas’ hips grinds slow and deep—using his hand to support him as he rolls back and forth. With each thrust inward, he adds another inch to how much of himself he puts inside of her. Angelica lives for it—her mouth pulling away from his and her head rolling forward to rest on his shoulder as her long curly tresses tickle his pecs.

She's tight and warm and wet around him—months of sleeping together and he still hadn't gotten used to just how good she felt around him. He has to admit—the idea of treating her like she deserves to be treated slips his mind briefly, the primal need inside of him to treat her like a whore roaring loudly. But he has her body alive for him—speaking volumes of how much she wants… how much she  _ needs  _ this. There would plenty of opportunities to fuck like animals—she deserved to be made to feel good.

Especially with Alexander somewhere in her home, either ball deep in the first girl that gives him a pretty look or flirting shamelessly with her sister. Angelica wouldn't admit it, but she desperately wanted to feel gorgeous again—Alexander had broken something in her confidence when he’d slept with her best friend while she was overseas, and her confidence had never been the same. Thomas was going to come through for her—he was going to try and make it better. He would always come through for her.

He eventually reaches the point where he's balls deep inside of her and she's whimpering in pure elation. Her teeth nip at the sweaty flesh of his shoulder and he holds her there for a moment—not moving an inch, letting her feel everything happening inside of her at the moment. Angelica’s nails dig into his scalp and it hurts a bit, but god if it isn't sexy the way she's so open for him in this moment.

"You're lighting up for me baby," Thomas hums appreciatively, pushing aside locks of sweaty hair from her face to admire her expression. "Tell me, Ang. What do you need?"

"You, Thomas," she admits, her voice small and slightly weak from lust. She's trembling all over—they're not even truly fucking yet and she's already on the edge—just barely escaping the rising action, but not quite tilting over into the climax. His teasing always made her far more sensitive than when he didn’t take her time. "God, I need you baby. I love you."

"I love you, too," he whispers back, and he means every word of it. She was everything he'd ever wanted for a soulmate and he loved her endlessly—there were things he was willing to do for this woman that would change the definition of loyalty forever. Selfishly, he’s grateful that Alexander had hurt her so that he could have this very opportunity. "So fucking much.  _ So fucking much ." _

He moves his hips again, pulling most of the way out slowly before sliding back in. Angelica growls in response, busying her mouth with scraping and suckling hickeys onto his shoulder so that she doesn't cry out. The last thing they needed was for one of her little sisters to find their little hiding place due to her shouting.

His hips roll a bit with each thrust, and he delivers everything just the way she wants, but the speed remains the same. He wanted her to enjoy this. If she was lit up for him right now, he wanted to carve fireworks into her skin. He wasn't allowed to make her scream, but he wanted to get damn close.

Her mouth pulls away from his skin and it hurts where the warmth used to be—Thomas doesn't even want to imagine the marks she'd inflicted on him. Angelica's head tilts back against the wall again, her eyes squeezed shut. Her mouth has fallen open, and there are noises coming from her throat that are damn near pornographic. If he had a free hand, he would clamp it over her mouth but he doesn't. Luckily, Angelica knows better—she winces as she removes one of her hands from around his neck and bites into the flesh on the back of it.

She doesn't need to tell him—he feels it in the way she clenches around his length and growls into her hand. He fucks her through it, moving slower than before—if that was even at all possible. Angelica shakes around him, her legs turning into gelatin. There are no stars or fireworks flashing behind her eyelids. Nothing but sweet, pure darkness. Oblivion as she rides through the orgasm, desperately trying to take all of him in. He's too far away, even though he's right there—mouthing her exposed neck and murmuring sweet 'I love you's' into the hollow of her throat.

She comes down from the high with his name on her lips, a desperate prayer. Thomas holds her as he slides out—his still hard length resting against her thigh.

"You're not gonna…" she mutters, fumbling for his cock. Rolling his eyes, Thomas takes her hand and presses his lips against the back of it.

"I can handle a little blue balls until we get out of here. I'm not fucking you in a storage closet again—you deserve better than that, gorgeous," he says sternly. He seems so sure of himself—so confident that he's right, that she does deserve better than senseless fucking on whatever flat surface. And there's so much unadulterated emotion in those pools of brown, she doesn't even have the urge to sarcastically ask 'Do I?'.

"I meant it, Thomas Jefferson," she says instead. Angelica locks her legs tighter around his waist and pulls him closer to her—so that her breasts push up against his chest and his lips fall a few centimeters from her mouth. "I love you."

"I know you do, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ship is cute for a list of reasons and i need to write more of it tbh


	48. The Marquis (George/Gilbert) [[NSFW]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington never took too kindly to their teasing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Swallow, baby. I don't want to see a single drop go to waste.” & “I hope you don’t think I’m afraid to fuck you in front of all these people.”
> 
> I started writing smut and now I can’t stop I’m so so so sorry

George Washington has barely made it an hour through the elite dinner party before his young date began to burn lusty holes into his flesh from beside him — which considering  _ the Marquis’ _ infamy for insatiable horniness, is a new track record. Their presence was radiating throughout every pore of the younger of the two’s being from the spot they’d taken beside the businessman, making Washington suddenly hyper-aware of every brush of contact they shared between them. The way their bare thighs rest against the expensive fabric of his dress slacks or how the young escort kept casually stealing food from his plate as though they were an old married couple. Not only that but the way they were looking at him —with all that lust and want in their eyes. 

George almost has a heart attack when they make a point of tantalizingly licking all of the chocolate from their dipped strawberries during dessert, eyes half-lidded, filled with desire and pointed directly at him.  The older man is almost immediately regretting asking them to accompany him to the dinner party —knowing they wouldn’t make it through the night without at  _ least  _ some foreplay.

The CEO of Revolutionary Enterprises had been seeing the escort for almost two years now, ever since his protege had recommended them to him after he’d needed a date to an Executive’s wedding. Though Revolutionary Enterprises had nothing to do with dating or romance, it was well known that it was unattractive to show up to events without some sort of arm-candy with you. Old rich men loved looking at young, hot pieces of tail when they were brokering deals and discussing business and the esteemed prostitute—known as  _ the Marquis _ on the streets—was  _ certainly  _ arm candy. Better yet, they were possibly the most interesting, funny, and amazing person Washington had ever met.

Alright, maybe the ten-thousand-dollar a month stipend he afforded them in exchange for exclusivity wasn’t  _ just  _ because they were a good trophy. Still, he didn’t hear any complaints.

Tonight, however, was supposed to be a little different. Washington had invited them along to the important dinner party because Gilbert had been complaining about being lonely. Though they had other escort friends before, ever since they’d been George’s personal on-call spouse, they hadn’t really had the chance to be around the other girls from the agency they were contracted with . George knew that some of the men he rubbed elbows with had their own on-call sugar babies. It had been a win-win, and there wasn’t supposed to be any sex involved. It wasn’t all that Gil was good for in the businessman’s eyes.

However, it seemed as though things would be going a little differently than expected. The short, glimmering red dress that Gilbert had chosen to wear had attracted some eyes and after an accidental display of jealousy —the bright red hickey still bloomed on the younger of the two’s neck, much to Washington’s annoyance and his dates neverending delight—it had become the escort’s mission to either make their date wither from desire or bend them over the dining room table.

They’re giving him a hungry look that was very familiar between the two of them, especially when Lafayette was the horny one. They were looking at him as though they were undressing him with their mind —and George would be a lie if he said he wasn’t doing the same.

Leaning over during a break in the conversation where no one is paying attention to either of them, George whispers, “I hope you don’t think I’m afraid to fuck you in front of all these people.”

Gilbert laughs into their glass of wine, a sly twinkle in their hazel eyes. Washington knew better than that, of course. He knew that for one second, Lafayette didn’t underestimate the older man’s dominance. 

“Do your words have any promise to them? I don't like men that don't keep their word, George.” Their foot is sliding up his leg beneath the table now, the sharp point of their heel pulling along the expensive fabric of his slacks. The grip that George has on his fork tightens and he gives a small huff of amusement under his breath —wordlessly picking up and sipping from his own glass of wine . Lafayette knew better than anyone that everything George Washington said, he meant.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” George then announces to the table of his rich cohorts, surprising the young temptation in their seat. Washington pushes away from the long dining room table, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Lafayette has drunk a bit too much tonight. I think I’ll just take him into the kitchen for a glass of water and a sit-down.”

The other men at the table wave the two of them off with dismissal, none too interested in the wellbeing of a hooker —far more immersed in the overabundance of alcohol and food being passed around . A few of the other young dates offer help as George wraps a strong grip around Lafayette’s bicep and pulls them up to their feet, but Gilbert —ever the talented actor—slurs their words as they deny the women . The only people that seem to see through the thinly veiled charade are Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson —George’s closest friends and most trusted coworkers—but both of them snicker into their plates of food. They’d both learned their lesson about interfering when Lafayette had pushed Washington to this limit and they  offer no otherwise help to their friend .

The second the two of them are alone behind the closed doors of the kitchen, Gilbert pushes themselves onto their lover—arms looping lazily around his neck and lips moving hungrily against his. Washington’s chin and lips soon become smeared with the ‘Ravish Me Red’ lipstick, but neither of them care much about that—lust overpowering their concentration on anything else. 

It doesn’t take much more of the kissing for George to be pushing his date against the kitchen’s island, lifting them atop the marble counters and spreading their legs wide for him—fed-up with the lack of satisfying contact that had been going on between the two of them. Its quickly made obvious just how horny the younger of the pair is, as their cock stands at attention against the fabric of their underwear and drips dark spots on the bright red panties. 

Washington is deliberate in his movements when he pulls away from their heated kiss and begins to kiss a slow trail up from their ankles to their inner thigh. Lafayette’s head falls back at the feeling of the man's lips butterflying small pecks of affection up their leg—biting and suckling every now and then, despite his dates dress definitely not long enough to cover the inevitable hickeys. Their breathing picks up a few notches, and an anxious smile forms on their lips—knowing exactly where this was going and loving every minute of it. In response to the treatment, Lafayette’s perfectly manicured nails grip at the cloth of their boyfriend’s jacket—tugging hard in a desperate plea for his mercy. 

Teeth pulling at the satin fabric of his partner’s panties, George more than graciously obliges the voiceless request. The cloth slides over their ass and down to their ankles under the direction of George’s teeth, and Gilbert looks down at their man with eyes clouded with lust as their dick springs free—slapping against their stomach before resting lazily between their legs.

Washington wastes no time getting properly reacquainted with his lover's cock once he’s back at the point of focus, lapping lazily at the drops of precum on their swollen pink head before taking a few inches of the length into his mouth. When Lafayette’s cock hits the back of his throat, they give a small whimper —the warmth and wetness of George’s mouth working wonders on them, especially after an entire night of desire tightening their panties . He goes all the way down to the base of his lover's member before coming back up to swirl his tongue around the head again, tasting the salty precum on his tongue and looking up to his lover with sly eyes. Above him, Gilbert hums their approval deep in their chest —watching as their boyfriend once again licks at their slit before going back down, dragging his tongue along the vein on the underside of their cock.

“George,” Lafayette moans quietly, hand resting on the back of their lovers head as he bobs up and down their shaft —the other coming up to cover their mouth, not wanting any unwelcome visitors to hear what they were doing . It was a rare treat when George found himself on his knees, and not the other way around —but a well-welcomed one. Though Gil lived for pleasing their man, it felt more than amazing when the favor was returned tenfold. A special treat, if you will. “George,  _ fuck _ , baby.”

Sloppy, wet slurping noises come from between their legs as Washington continues in his task—making sure that every stretch of skin on his lover's dick is covered by his tongue. Gilbert bucks their hips upwards in an awkward yet satisfying fashion—meeting George’s pace and pressing down on his head in order to keep him at work. This forces their cock against the back of George’s throat, eliciting the occasional, sexy choking sound. They know its a bit rude, but he’s got them at full mast and so close to an orgasm—they’d let him fuck their throat raw later if they got to cum, but they’d go crazy if he refused them that reprieve. 

Of course, George would never disappoint them like that. Gil thrusts into his mouth until they can feel their climax building at the very bottom of their stomach—their balls tightening with need, their cock twitching with the oncoming orgasm. They fuck messily into the man’s mouth until George’s hands begin to grip at their thighs, and they reluctantly let him take over again—though with the knowledge that he was going to be a slow tease about it. 

Pulling his mouth off of his lover's cock, Washington uses his hand to work their shaft for awhile while he licks tauntingly at their tip—looking every bit the cocktease that he is as he pumps their cock closer to the finish. The cold, gold band he wore on his ring finger—a request of Laf, in exchange for the exclusivity contract—chills Lafayette’s shaft, sending a shiver up their spine. Its the sudden cross between cold and hot that has them practically trembling against the countertop, but George seems to see how desperate they are and take pity. Small ‘hah! hah!’ noises begin coming from deepest part of Gil’s throat at how the older man pistons their cock, until Washington takes them back into his mouth until their length hits the back of his throat again—sucking his lover up with zeal—and they almost cry out with how good it feels.

When they feel their climax teetering on the edge, they decide to revel a bit in the moment—placing a hand underneath George’s chin and tilting the man's head up, Lafayette’s voice is husky when they say,  **“Swallow baby, I don’t wanna see a single drop go to waste.”**

Never one to disappoint, George keeps his lovers gaze as he slides his mouth down to the hilt of Gil’s cock—effectively forcing him to swallow when they give three final pumps forward and spill their seed. Biting down into the back of their hand to keep from crying out, they watch with lusty eyes as Washington’s throat flexes—swallowing mouthful after mouthful of their load until the last streams of cum are emptied from his lover’s balls.

When George finally comes up for air and pulls his mouth from Gilbert’s dick, he sticks out his tongue—showing his partner that he had indeed swallowed every drop as instructed. Still, never one to do anything halfway, he smears the last few droplets of cum from Lafayette’s cock across his lips—eliciting a half-hiss, half-moan from them—before giving their member a messy peck on the head and licking the rest of the cum from his mouth.

If they were surprised by the action, George can’t tell—they look so positively spent and exhausted that their boyfriend almost feels guilty. Almost—but not quite. Lafayette knew that Washington never took kindly to their teasing.

“Wasn’t quite the fucking I was promised… but it’ll do until we get home,” they murmur, setting their feet back onto the tiles of the kitchen floor. They pull their panties off the rest of the way and stuff them into Washington’s pocket. “Sneak out the back door? I think if we leave formally the hickeys on my legs will be a dead giveaway.”

“After you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bottoms deserve to be serviced too pass it on
> 
> an actually short drabble bc I’ve been suffering from writer's block for months and I was really just writing this to get myself through it (believe it or not I've had all of these sitting in drafts since July)


	49. The Porn Star & their Professor (George/Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn did have its inevitable perks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person A does porn to help put themselves through college. Person B is a professor at their University. So when, on their first day of their first semester, they walk into class and notice that their professor can't stop staring at them, things get… awkward.
> 
>  
> 
> its not exactly awkward, a lil more flirty, but yeah

“Here’s your coffee,  _ Paris _ ,” Hercules Mulligan’s gruff voice teases as he plops down next to his co-star in their US Government class, dark eyes glistening with amusement at how positively exhausted his best friend looks. His amusement is only heightened when the tired Frenchman glares at him for using their stage name and flips him a perfectly manicured middle finger.

Gilbert had been doing adult films for nearly eight months—ever since their mother had passed on and their Uncles had cut him off from monthly stipend. They needed the money desperately to continue living in New York, and Hercules—being the friend he was—had hooked them up with his agent. They were a good actor, cute with an accent, and filled a niche market—playing submissives in BDSM movies—but they were… an overachiever, to say the least.

Hercules, when he first introduced his young friend to doing movies, had warned them against doing more than two films in one day—he’d said that doing one film was taxing enough, but two could and would push their limits. Especially considering that his friend was experimenting with gangbangs, and some stars forgot about their co-stars when doing such heavy scenes. Gilbert had, of course, ignored all of his advice. And now they’re paying the price.

“Need an ibuprofen with that?” their friend asks, trying to keep his voice low as he begins to rummage through his backpack. He knew that Gilbert didn’t want too many—if any—people knowing that they did videos unless they were one of their viewers. Out of respect for their feeble attempt at privacy—he’d tried to explain to them plenty of times that once you got fucked on a screen where millions of people could watch at any time, all notions of privacy went out the window—he tried his best to keep things under wraps. Unless they were with people like Alex, or John, who already knew. “I fuckin’ told you so.”

“ _ Mon cul me fait mal _ ,” Lafayette whines, shifting in their seat uncomfortably and trying their best not to grimace too obviously. Mulligan notices that they choose to ignore his triumphant bragging. “If you have anything stronger than ibuprofen, I will personally suck your dick.”

“Sucking dick is what got you into this,” Hercules chuckles back, slipping them an oxy from his personal stash. Gilbert is gulping the pill down with their coffee and half-assed listening to Hercules tell a story about his girlfriend when their professor steps into the classroom, clearing his throat in an attempt to command the attention of the students. Some of lookup, suddenly more alert and others pay the man no mind—eye flickering to him before returning to whatever text message they were in the middle of typing. Gilbert themselves is too busy leaning against Hercules and listening to their best friend gush about his new girlfriend, Maria, to give the man the time of day.

That is until they feel the distinct, slightly uncomfortable feeling of someone staring at them and they’re forced to look away. Eyes lifting up from the well-knit cloth Hercules’ sweater, they accidentally lock eyes with their professor and immediately straighten themselves up—lifting their head from Hercules’ shoulder and shuffling through their backpack for a notebook. Despite the correction of their obvious disrespect—after all, he was raised with  _ some  _ manners—when they look back to the front of the class, George is still stealing glances at them as he begins to go through the roll.

Self-consciously, Gilbert lifts a hand to their curls, twisting one brown lock around their index finger as their eyes follow him. He doesn’t particularly mind the attention from the Professor—he had a thing for older men, the man in question was certainly a sight for sore eyes. He had these alluring dark eyes, somewhat similar to Hercules’, and a strong jaw that clenched and unclenched every time he stole another glance to his student. Tall, muscular, handsome… he’d make a good actor… 

Hercules chuckles under his breath when he catches what his best friend is doing, and they shoot him an inquisitive look.

“What’s funny?”

“Okay,  _ Paris _ . He obviously recognizes you from somewhere, and I know it ain’t the goddamn grocery store.”

Lafayette is about to open their mouth to fire off some witty retort in defense of the man—”Everything in my life doesn’t revolve around porn,  _ connard _ .”—but that’s when it clicks.  _ Of course _ , this did, it was the only logical explanation. Why else would their Professor have a sudden inability to his gaze away from him, why else would he keep stealing questionable glances? They curse themselves under their breath and quickly look away from their Professor—eyes returning to the fabric of Hercules’ sweater as they rest their head against him again. 

That would certainly make things just a  _ little  _ awkward, at least. 

Usually, when people recognized them from their videos—which was actually pretty rare—they were able to get over it. It didn’t necessarily bother them to be noticed, they just like to keep whatever private that they could. Sometimes they’d smile and flirt and land themselves an easy fuck. Sometimes the people that watched their videos would become hostile—usually, the ‘straight’ men who had only watched it ‘on a dare’—but Hercules pretty much stuck with them most of the time, so it was rare there was any violence. They got the occasional creep, sometimes they had to decline offers to be paid for sex—there was nothing wrong with prostitution, it just wasn’t his style—and the worst thing situations they found themselves in were people trying to Dom them without their permission. For the most part, they were recognized by other stars or sweet fans that just wanted a picture. 

But when they were recognized by someone with that they had to have a professional relationship with… someone like Professor Washington, it made them a little uncomfortable. They couldn’t help but worry that if this person in a position of authority over them knew their work and judged them for it, their schoolwork or even their college into Colombia could suffer. Their Uncles were already itching for a reason to drag them back to France, and they weren’t keen on giving them one.

Plus, it was just… awkward, sometimes. Trying to have a professional conversation with someone with the knowledge they’d seen them get their ass eaten out on screen before.

“Pari—” Lafayette cringes at the name immediately, their stomach twisting just slightly when their fears are confirmed. George did recognize them from their porn—it was the only way the man could’ve known to call him by that name. Either that or someone was spreading nasty rumors again. “I’m sorry. I must’ve misread. Marie Paul-Yves Roch—”

“You can call me Gilbert,” they speak up, finally finding the courage to find George’s eyes again. At least the older man has the decency to look equally as ashamed, his eyes avoiding the student and carefully remaining on the crisp white sheet of his roster. Some of the other students in the classroom snicker—those that know just exactly why Professor Washington had called them Paris—whilst others either look on confusedly or ignore their surroundings. “Here,  _ monsieur _ .”

Clearing his throat again, Professor Washington quickly turns away—muttering something about the ‘Paris’ student not being in his class and continuing through the roll call. Despite this hiccup—and Hercules’ adamant teasing throughout the day—the rest of the class flies by without much more event. They’re given the syllabus, instructed on which textbooks to purchase and for what reason and then given a long, winded speech on how Professor Washington had never had a student fail or drop his class.

Gilbert hopes they won’t be the first.

As the students begin packing up in preparation for their next class, Gilbert tries their best to ignore their Professor—keeping their eyes on Hercules as the older man talks. Though, they shift their attention to their phone when their best friend steps away to go chat with a friend. Gilbert is so consumed with their attempt to remain inconspicuous as they wait for him that they don’t notice that the man they’re trying to avoid has approached them until his hand falls upon their shoulder—startling them again and causing them to make a small sound of surprise. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Professor Washington says with a friendly chuckle, as Gilbert quickly shoulders their purse. The older man looks infinitely more attractive up close—with a small gap in the shy smile he offers them, and his bushy eyebrows raised just so. His skin is lightly dusted with a faint hue of pink, and he looks just as nervous as Gilbert feels. “Mr. de Lafayette, I just came to let you know… your profession is not… it  _ will  _ not get in the way of our relationship as professor and pupil this year.”

“Uh… thanks,” they mutter, trying to avoid looking at his face. He  _ is  _ quite handsome, its a shame he’s their professor. Feeling the awkward silence creeping on, they continue with the only conversation starter that comes to mind at the moment. “So… you watch my videos?”

“Watch your videos?” George chuckles, hand darting up to rub nervously at the back of his neck. “Well, i usually wouldn’t be so forward with a student of mine. But considering the situation… I uh… technically, no. I was a subscriber to your…  _ live  _ videos. A few months ago.”

“Was?” Lafayette asks, eyebrow quirking.  _ That  _ was a rarity. It could be the beginning of arrogance, but it was rare that when people began watching their videos they just…  _ stopped _ . They still had all their fans from when they’d done their first video, which their agent liked to praise them on.  _ You’ve got the ‘it’ factor, Lafayette _ , Angelica had said, when they had been scheduling another shoot. _ Once someone gets hooked on you, they can’t stop. _ They’d detested being compared to an addiction, but it was a nice ego boost.

“I—”

“Ready to go?” Professor Washington had opened his mouth to answer the question, but Hercules interrupts the conversation just then—a protective arm draping around Lafayette’s shoulders and a quizzical eyebrow raised at the other man. Unfortunately, when they’d thought earlier about how Hercules was always around when it came to fans, they’d been unaware of how true it was. Of course, after just one bad incident, their best friend was… gallant, to say the best.

_ Hercules, his mother named him so fittingly, _ they think bitterly, as the Professor mutters something about preparing for his next class and stalks away.

“Herc, have I ever told you that you’re the ultimate cockblock?” they ask with a whine, as the duo begins to make their way out of the classroom. They can’t help but look over their shoulder at their Professor as they leave, and barely stifle a smile of their own when the man waves them goodbye.

“Whatever happened to your ass hurting you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its probably irrelevant bc i probably won’t write in this au much (i have one other idea for it), but for reference
> 
> Hercules - porn star/going to school to become a fashion designer  
> Maria - stripper/cam baby/studying social work  
> Lafayette - porn star/cam baby/going to school for cosmetology  
> Angelica - agent/adult film director/ex-lawyer  
> George - obvi a professor


	50. Hush, You Foolish Man (Dolley/James)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James alters the course of history, but he can’t say his wife is very happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Take it easy! I wouldn't want you to tear your stitches again."
> 
> is… this my first historical setting fic on this collection…… it took me fifty ficlets to get here
> 
> i’m trash

In the long run, James would look back and wonder why the hell he jumped in front of a bullet meant for the man that for years, he’d come to loathe. He’d curse himself to heaven, hell and purgatory for getting involved in the childish spat between Burr and Hamilton, for allowing Alexander ‘Can’t-Be-Quiet-For-His-Own-Good’ Hamilton the reprieve of another moment of his slanderous and scandalous life here on this God-given Earth. He’d be angry with _himself_ for intervening with history. For foolishly taking himself away from his wife, and child.

Or at least, he would if he had the glorious fortune to live to see the day that he recovered from this horror show.

When Burr had arrived on his doorstep a month prior, angry tears welling in dark eyes and fury coating the words on his tongue, James had been genuinely surprised. Well, he’d been _taken aback_ at first but once he realized that the rage emanating from the other man was not directed at him, it had turned into surprise. Given how poorly the election had gone for him, and how cruel Thomas had been to the man afterwards, Madison hadn’t expected to hear from Aaron Burr ever again in his lifetime. At least not directly. And certainly not so late in the evening.

But he quickly realized that the reason his old friend and now political rival had arrived on the doorstep of his home wasn’t for a social call nor was it for an argument, but for a far more pressing matter—a grave one, in fact. Aaron and Alexander would be having a duel at Weehawken, and Burr wanted James to attend as his second.

First, he’d tried to talk Aaron down from it—" _Duel’s are dumb, and immature, and Theodosia needs her father, sir.”_ —but all of that had only fueled the rage that the new Vice President was struggling contain within himself. It ignited a passion that James had only seen inside Aaron once before—when he’d run for President—, a scary fire that burned behind his eyes and elevated his voice to levels Madison hadn’t thought he was capable of reaching. And honestly, by the time Burr had finished ranting and raving about how Hamilton had been in the way of his every attempt at greatness, about how Hamilton was entitled to this or disrespectful about that… Madison was tired of arguing. It became clear that there was no talking his once-friend down from this.

So, then he’d contemplated saying no the absurd request. After all, bearing witness to a duel was quickly becoming illegal—and even in places where it wasn’t already, it was greatly frowned upon. Not only would attending and being the witness to a man’s potential murder be horrendously stupid in general, but it’d be social suicide—which means it’d be more stupid for Madison, who had plans to one day be the next President of the United States. No one would dare associate with him if they found out he participated, and the last thing he needed was to make life any harder on Dolley.

But it had seemed like Aaron wasn’t one to take no for answer, anymore. And if he was being honest, James had always enjoyed a bit of old-fashioned gossip. There was a good chance that neither of them would shoot, and he could be home before breakfast to tell Dolley all about how over-dramatic the two of them had been.

He’d accepted. Foolishly.

In his defense, he thought that by the time the two men got a look at each other, they’d call the duel off. They’d been friends, afterall—Aaron had been one of the first people Alexander had met when he arrived in America. He’d attended his wedding, they were fellow soldiers. They both had known each other for thirty or more so years, which was why James didn’t believe for a second they had the capability of shooting each other.

He could tell as they rowed across the Hudson, could tell by the anxiety and turmoil in Aaron’s face, that he didn’t want to kill Alexander. They had all joked about it before—especially Thomas, who sometimes was a little obsessive in his comments—but Burr wasn’t a murderer. No matter how much of a nuisance this man was. He was simply too prideful to allow the Hamilton to continue his libel unchecked. And of course, Madison couldn’t really blame him for that—no matter how infantile he thought the two of them were being. Being told that one had no opinions, no morals, no viewpoints… that must’ve stung, especially when it was done so publically. He isn’t sure himself how he would’ve reacted to such a humiliation.

Certainly not with a duel, though, that was for sure.

When they dock at the banks and disembark from the boat, James can see Burr softening a bit. When they approach Hamilton and his crew and Pendleton passes one of the guns to James, he can feel the tension loosen—if only for a second. Hamilton seems distracted, as he looks out over the sunrise and plays with the trigger of the gun.

 _I’ll be home before Dolley wakes,_ James thinks to himself blandly, placing the gun in Aaron’s hands before returning to join Pendleton to discuss the matter. He isn’t made nervous about the duel actually happening until this moment—the moment where he presumes the entire affair will be called off.

He and Pendleton meet between where the two opposing men stand, and when Madison asks for a simple apology from Hamilton, he expects Pendleton to agree. He expects the man to concede, admit that this entire affair was overdrawn and foolish and the two of them should return home to their families. _I’ll be home before Dolley awakes,_ he thinks again, a confident air around him.

Instead, Nathaniel nervously fiddles with the sleeves of his coat as he says, “I’m… I’m not sure Mr. Hamilton is willing to agree to that.”

James’ stomach drops. He opens his mouth to protest, to insist to this man that _of course,_  Hamilton should be agreeing to apologize. _What, does the man have a death wish?_ he thinks bitterly, eyeing the grey-haired figure over the shoulder of Pendleton. He knows that Alexander had been to challenged to—and had challenged men to—duels before, but he couldn’t possibly have such arrogance about him to think he was bulletproof. This was not a political debate, this was not a cabinet meeting. Someone could—and would—die. No one’s ego was enough to save their life from a bullet shot by vengeance.

Looking over his own shoulder to Burr, he finds that his gaze has hardened. He’s glaring daggers into Alexander, slowly loading the bullet into his gun. This is no longer, to James, a matter of childish ego between frenemies. He realizes, staring at his old friend, that this had quickly become an immediate matter of life and death.

“Well,” James says curtly, knots of anxiety tying themselves in his stomach. Suddenly, he finds himself on the wrong side of history, staring down at his friend that was now planning to murder his political rival.. Nerves prickle just beneath his flesh, and the crisp morning air is suddenly far too cool—everything inside of him screams that something is not right, _something is not right_. _Do something to stop this,_ he screams at himself. _Stop this, at once!_ “Then I suppose, there is nothing that can be done.”

 _There is nothing that can be done,_ he assures himself, though something in him is not satisfied with that outcome.

Nathaniel nods, shakes Madison’s hand, and turns away—back towards Hamilton, to whisper something in his ear. The man’s eyes find James, then they float over to Aaron, and then they flutter shut for several long moments. In that time, there is nothing in the air but the sound of birds chirping and the river water pattering along—almost as though the world is giving a respectful moment of silence to the two men laid bare before it. Then Alexander takes a deep inhale and gives a nod, turning on his heel.

Burr turns as well.

They count.

**_One…_ **

_This isn’t right,_ James mind screams as he watches their boots crunch the leaves on the ground. Nathaniel warns him to turn around for deniability, but he can’t will his body to do so—he’s frozen in anxiety, anticipation. Someone could die, right this very moment, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the inevitable.

**_Four…_ **

_Do something! Stop this at once!_

**_Six…_ **

_This is foolish!_

**_Ten…_ **

_Someone is going to_ die _!_

For some odd reason, that thought is the one that spurs his feet forward. He’s already moved towards the line of fire when Burr has turned, pistol pointed directly at Hamilton’s chest and finger on the trigger. A sense of urgency blanketing him, James half-stumbles, half-runs in front of the gun just as Hamilton raises his own weapon in the air. The action of concession is too late, however, because Aaron has already pulled his finger back against the trigger and fired.

He distinctly hears both Hamilton and Burr simultaneously shout ‘No!’ and a ringing in his ears from the gunshot. Pain sears through his stomach, spreading out to bloom a blood-red flower against the creme cloth of his coat. His eyes can’t focus on just any one thing, but he distinctly catches a glimpse of the regret on Aaron’s face before his eyes flutter closed from the blood loss.

They open again at home, and his nose is filled with the smell of pork cooking and fresh laundry. James grunts in confusion, attempting to sit up from what must’ve been a bad dream. He is made distinctly aware of the fact that it was indeed not a bad dream by the tearing pain that spreads through him again—exploding from the center of his stomach and rippling outwards. Giving a cry of pain, he nearly collapses back against the sheets but is caught by gentle hands.

“Stop!” a soft, familiar voice says. James looks up to find his wife’s french manicured hands on his chest, easing him back down against the clusters of pillows. He frowns just slightly at the design—she hadn’t had it before he left, which meant Thomas must’ve sent her more of those French fashion magazines. _How long was I out for?_ he wonders curiously.

There is worry crinkling the corners of her dark eyes, and she smoothes back the sweaty curls of James’ dark hair—a comforting action for the both of them—as she speaks. **“Take it easy! I wouldn’t want you to tear your stitches again.** It was quite the hassle the first time it happened, I think you’ve ruined a set of sheets… or two.”

Wincing at how it scratches at his throat when he does so, James mutters, “I was shot.”

“Yes. _Stupidly_ , I might add. You _told_ me you were going to a _meeting_ ,” she says, pointedly avoiding looking him in the face—probably afraid she’d be unable to school her expression out of anger and hurt. Instead, she peels back the covers of their bedsheets and tuts her tongue at what she finds—his quick action had caused blood to begin spread through his bandages, soaking the perfectly white cloths and his shirt a wine red. “I’ll have to change these.”

“It _was_ a meeting,” he says defensively, watching as she rises from her spot at his side to open a nearby cupboard. A cupboard that hadn’t been there before either—stacked neatly with tonics, bandages, alcohols and medicines. He can’t help but notice how frazzled she looks as she does this—her usually well-styled hair falls limply over her shoulders, and she doesn’t wear any of the grande dresses that he’d become accustomed to seeing her in. Instead, she wears a simple frock—one that a milkmaid might wear to work the cows. It’s obvious that she has not left the home they share together—Dolley had never been known to let the public see her this way.

“Do you take me for an idiot, my love?” she asks flatly, filling a wicker basket with bandages, towels and antiseptics before joining him again at his bedside. She sets the basket of materials down and begins the messy task of changing his bandages.

He winces, this time from the guilt. “Dolley, I—”

“Hush, you foolish man,” she says, peeling back the cloths. Looking down, James grimaces at the wound. Dark puckered flesh around a carefully stitched together hole in his stomach, red and swollen from irritation. Blood oozes and gushes from the sides—probably from where he’d torn the stitches in his abrupt movement. Dolley sighs, and he doesn’t say anything when he notices her swipe at tears on her face. “We can argue about how stupid and callous that was later. Rest more. Are you hungry?”

“How long was I out for?” he asks groggily, waving his hand in dismissal at the offer. Dolley hums a faint tune underneath her breath, peeling the bandages the rest of the way from his clammy skin and tossing them onto the rug on the floor.

“A week and a half,” she says, after a moment. Taking a cloth, she pours a bit of the alcohol onto it and begins to clean up the blood that had begun to dribble from the wound. James winces at the faint burning that comes when she swipes around the gunshot wound, gives a small hiss of pain. Despite the scowl gracing her lips, she lets up on the pressure. “I thought you were going to die. Everyone did. Hamilton, Burr, those idiots they… they send their sympathies and well wishes. I made stew.”

James gives a laugh, a dry one that hurts his abdomen, as he says, “You can’t cook.”

“Fine,” Dolley says, tossing aside the dirty cloth with the rest of his bandages. She’s quiet for a few moments as she finishes redressing his injury—noticeably pulling tighter than necessary—before she retrieves the still steaming bowl of stew waiting on the nightstand for him. “The servants made stew. Eat.”

“I’m… sorry I didn’t tell you,” he interrupts, as she lifts a spoon from the bowl. Dolley’s hand falters, before lowering. Sighing, she sets the bowl aside again and reaches up to brush away his hair.

“You should be,” Her voice is soft as she speaks, the edge slowly receding before dissipating completely. Dolley looks tired, he notices under the barely flickering lamplight. There are deep bags under his eyes and a striking sadness that breaks his heart. “You’re lucky that doctor that was with Hamilton was halfway competent, you could’ve gotten an infection or they could’ve shot you somewhere serious or… or—”

Dolley’s voice breaks and she cuts off, bring the sleeve of her dress up to press against her nose. Fat tears roll over the brim of her eyes and she swipes at them again—though unfortunately, this time, she misses the majority. Reaching up with weak hands, he presses it against the side of her face—thumb lightly rolling over the soft skin of her cheek. He thumbs away a stream of tears, a sad smile gracing his lips.

“My love, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Then why the _hell_ would you jump in front of a loaded gun!” she snaps, abruptly pulling away from his touch. She picks up the bowl again, stirring the contents of the stew around with an urgency in her movements he had not seen before. The tears that fall over her face come with rapid succession now, pooling at her chin and making large droplets on the sheets. “... I could’ve lost you! You could’ve _died_! What were you thinking!? No, you obviously _weren’t_ thinking!”

“Dolley, I’m _sorry_ ,” he stresses, attempting to still her hand. He wraps his hand around the one that holds the fork, stilling her movements. Then, with a weak smile, “I promise, I won’t do it again.”

She softens, looks back down at the bowl. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not trying to be,” he assures, with a whisper.

“I love you, James. I truly, _truly_ do. You have made me the happiest woman on Earth. But damn, if you aren’t a fool sometimes.”

“You are getting a potty-mouth from that parrot of yours. I do say, she has a bad influence on you,” he chuckles, head falling back against the pillow. Though there are still tears in his eyes, his efforts are finally rewarded with a light chuckle and smile. Lifting the spoon again, this time with a purpose, she brings it to his lips.

“Oh, _hush_. Here.”

“Mm. Thank you. Dolley, I love you, too. And I promise, if there ever is another duel, I’ll stay far from the firing range.”

“There will be no other duel,” the woman says with finalcy—eyes narrowing and a daring in her tone. James chuckles again, wincing just slightly and shifting in his sheets to become more comfortable.

“Are you sure? Hamilton is still alive, isn’t he?”

“James,” she says sternly, warning in her eyes and tone. He smiles as she readies another spoonful of the stew for him.

“ _Yes, ma’am._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn’t… particularly fluffy or angsty. but its my first dollmads fic so with practice i will get better hopefully


	51. Pros & Cons (George/Gilbert/Hercules)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a lot of cons in this situation to consider—the obvious age difference, the counselor-client status between them, the fact that he could lose his job, the fact that they’re already engaged. But like he’d instructed them to do the week before, he weighs the pros as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person A is a marriage counselor, and they’ve been counseling Person B and C for almost a year now—with an unadmitted crush on both of them. One day, after running late to a session, Persons B and C confess their crush on their counselor and request a transfer to a new marriage counselor.
> 
> my favorite ot3 is back scREEE

George exhales deeply as he runs through the facility that contains his office, intermittently checking the watch on his wrist to gauge just how late he would be to his noon appointment. It wasn’t frequent that he was late to appointments—in fact, he couldn’t remember being late with clients for as far back as he’d been a counselor—, but another one of his clients had gotten into a physical altercation with his spouse and he’d had to speak with the police about it.

He’s glad to help out the other couple, but he’s still upset over his assumed tardiness. He had genuinely come to like his usual Friday evening appointment. They were a young attractive couple that he’d been counseling with for nearly a year—one of the men wanted him and his fiancé to have an open relationship, to see other people and maybe even consider bringing a third party into the relationship. The other half was hesitant about the idea and seemed to be the very jealous type. This wasn’t an uncommon issue with couples—he’d had plenty of marriages and relationships fall apart over others wanting to step outside of the relationship with the consent of their partner and the partner feeling as though they’re ‘not enough’.

It wasn’t the situation that made them his favorite clients, but how genuinely in love and willing to compromise the two of them were—which, despite the two of them having only been engaged for seven months, was more than couples that had been married for twenty years were willing to do. Despite their differences, it was _so_ obvious the two were madly in love with each other—when George once asked if this could ‘break’ their relationship, the two had looked physically sick at the thought of being apart. The younger of the two—Gilbert de Lafayette—would constantly reach for his fiancé’s hand, straightening out his clothes… never, in the entire year that he’d known the couple, had Lafayette been capable of keeping his hands off of his fiancé. And the older—Hercules Mulligan—was more than quick to jump to his fiancé’s defense, or to comfort him when he began to feel guilty for wanting to be outside of their relationship. Making sure to support him, at every step of their counseling.

Often times, George found himself staring at the two of them with longing and want. He wasn’t sure if he envied their relationship as a whole, or if he envied each of them separately. Envied Lafayette for having such a wholesome and strong support system, or envied Hercules for having someone that was so willing to love him and openly and freely.

George wasn’t a foolish man. Over the years, he’d counseled hundreds of couples—either through the restoration or the failures of their marriages. He knew the signs of falling in and out of love, even if he as a person didn’t want to admit it. He liked them. He liked _both_ of them, a lot. But once again, he isn’t a foolish man. He wouldn’t dare breach that line of professionalism with his clients, no matter how attractive and kind they are to him.

Besides, they’re already having issues on this sort of thing. Their counselor wanting to become the hypothetical ‘third person’ they’re arguing over is a complication their relationship doesn’t need—no matter how sturdy.

Breathing hard, George arrives at his office door at four-fifteen—which, considering their sessions are supposed to  _start_ at four, makes him feel extremely guilty. Pushing open the door, he finds the couple in the waiting room… both looking unreasonably attractive. The two of them dressed well either way—Hercules was a fashion designer, which meant that dressing well was a given—but they are dressed… more provocative. George has never seen Lafayette in eyeliner, nor has he ever seen just how big Hercules’ muscles are.

He swallows thickly. _Dear Christ._

“I’m terribly sorry you two,” George says, falling into his counselor persona—it’s the easiest fallback to avoid thinking about more unprofessional things. The young couple looks up at him simultaneously, both of their faces breaking out into bright smiles. “There was an incident that I had to see to immediately. If you’d like to step into my personal office, we can begin our session for the day. I want to hear how the exercise I gave you turned out.”

“Eliza said there was a fight. Are you alright?” Lafayette asks, immediately rising to check George’s face for cuts and bruises. He smells good—cinnamon-y, a scent that reminds George of his mother’s baking. “I swear if someone hurt you…”

“Babe,” Hercules chuckles, though there’s something in his eyes that says the sentiment is shared.

“No, no, it was unrelated to me. I can’t discuss it. But come, come, let’s start. I won’t charge you for the full session,” he assures, gesturing for them to lead the way to his office. They do, lacing their fingers together and muttering between themselves. George can recognize a flash of panic on Lafayette’s face, but it disappears just as quickly as it comes.

Once the couple is comfortably settled on the couch—in their usual position, with Lafayette’s head on Hercules’ shoulder, and their hands grasped tightly within each other’s—George sits in his desk across from them, clasping his hands over his knee and taking a deep breath.

“So. The exercise about the pros and cons of having a third person in a relationship. We did it earlier, a few months back, and the cons outweigh the pros. Did you write them down again and evaluate?”

As usual, Lafayette talks first. He’s the most extroverted of the two, and George had gotten used to having to reel him back in, just so that he or Hercules could get a word in edgewise. “Yes, and it was _so_ eye-opening. Hercules did cons, and I did pros… and the pros outweigh the cons this time. A big thing we agreed on when it came to the pros, was that the bed would be much warmer at night. But… I think it’s because there’s someone now. That Herc is interested in, too.”

“Oh?” George asks, and the fact that he’s able to speak past the lump that forms in his throat. He doesn’t know why it affects him so badly—to hear that they’d finally agreed on adding someone to their relationship and they’d already found someone. He’d always known that they’d never be able to be together—it was not only morally wrong, but it was against the law.

Still, a part of him had hoped.

“Yes. Hercules fell in love with this… man. _I_ have loved him for a while now, but Hercules just recently realized and—” George puts a hand up to silence him, and immediately Lafayette falls quiet—looking to his counselor expectantly.

“Gil, we’ve discussed this before. Let Hercules talk for Hercules. I know you two are deeply connected to each other, and thus you often feel as though you can read his mind or understand what he’s thinking, but he has his own voice. Let him use it.”

“You’re right,” he mutters, and George notices that he squeezes his fiance’s hand. “I’m sorry. _Ma chérie?_ ”

“I… this guy, we’ve been talking to… he’s amazing,” Hercules starts, sitting forward a little bit and clearing his throat. It becomes obvious to George that despite the fact that Herc seems to have come to terms with his affections, he still feels awkward about the situation. “He truly is. And I didn’t want to admit it, because for nearly ten years all I’ve ever known is Laffy. And I love my fiance. He’s… well, babe, you’re the best thing I have ever had. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Gilbert mutters, leaning up to kiss his cheek. Hercules smiles at him before turning back to George.

“But this guy is… _phenomenal_. I feel like… I feel like I felt when I first met _Gilbert_. And I know Lafayette has been in love with him for awhile—ever since like, a _week_ after we first met. So now we do nothing but talk about him. Our future with him, what we’d do if he was with us, how happy we’d be with him. I mean, we have a party after our session. And we were talking about how he would dress if he came or how he’d be with our friends. He’s smart and funny and kind and… I don’t know. I love him. But…”

“There’s a but?” A flicker of pathetic hope.

“Of course, George. With us, there’s always a ‘but’,” Lafayette teases, earning a smile from the counselor.

“... but, we’re not sure if this guy likes us back,” Hercules finishes, and there’s a sadness in his voice that George isn’t quite accustomed to. Lafayette looks to his fiance and the smile on his face fades into a frown. He brings his other hand up to his fiance’s face and brushes his fingers against his cheek, an effort to comfort him. And George watches with a pang of longing as Hercules takes Lafayette’s hand and presses his lips to his knuckles. “It’s okay. I’m _okay_ , baby.”

“I know, I know. I just… I feel really _guilty_ , George,” Lafayette says, though he’s not looking at the man he’s speaking to. His eyes are focused on Hercules’, and a feeling of intrusion washes over the counselor “ _I_ introduced us to this guy, _I_ fell in love with this guy, _I_ dragged Herc down with me and _I_ gave this guy the power to break both of our hearts. And I vowed that I’d never let anyone hurt my baby. Not even a man I fall in love with.”

“Well, you can’t put that all on _yourself_ , though, Lafayette,” George says, leaning forward now. “You can’t control your emotions nor can you control Hercules’. I know giving someone that power is scary, but you can’t beat yourself up over a normal reaction.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he sighs, finally looking back to George. “I just want this guy to know that I don’t take that lightly. Hercules’ love. That’s a very serious business to me. It was fine when he had a piece of my heart, but now he’s taken a piece of my man’s, too. And if he hurts Hercules, I’ll strangle him with his own stupid fucking tie.”

George swallows, but this time it’s out of a bit of nervousness. There’s a distinct feeling nagging at the back of his mind that Lafayette is suddenly speaking directly to him, and not about some mysterious ‘other guy’.

The tie around his neck suddenly feels too tight.

Hercules deflates the tension by laughing and kissing Lafayette’s knuckles again. “He’s exaggerating. He takes spiders and roaches outside instead of killing them. Couldn’t hurt a wing on a fly’s body. I, on the other hand, am not when I say if this dude breaks my Laffy’s heart, there will be consequences.”

Again, that feeling of being spoken to, directly.

“Okay, I don’t like what this is insinuating,” George says, and noting quickly how they both exchange worried glances. “You can’t force someone to not only love you back but be interested in the two of you _together_. You cannot. So, if this man _does_ wind up breaking your hearts, you can’t hate him for it. Not everyone is going to be as open and accepting to a relationship like this as I am, boys. You know this.”

“Rejection is going to _sometimes_ be part of this. You two want to bring a third party into an already very happy relationship. There are going to be a lot of reasons why people will be hesitant to be with you—and one of those reasons will be the fear of ruining an already beautiful partnership. If this is something you two _truly_ want, then you’re going to need to adjust to rejection. And adjusting to rejection means that if you ask someone you care about to be with you and they say ‘no’, not allowing it to ruin your friendship and not allowing yourselves to become so overprotective that you resort to any forms of violence.”

“... you’re right,” they say together, and Hercules squeezes Lafayette’s hand this time.

“Can’t remember a time when I haven’t been,” he says, with a chuckle. On a notepad sitting on his desk, he writes ‘Mulligan-Lafayette, work on rejection next ses’. “So where did you meet this man? He sounds amazing.”

“It’s… a long story,” Hercules admits, playing with his ring now. Having lost both of Hercules’ hands, Lafayette chooses now to snuggle against his side. “I don’t think you’re ready to hear it yet.”

“Try me.”

The two exchange several minutes worth of a long glance, seemingly saying so many words without uttering a single one—another trait of their relationship that George had simultaneously envied and admired. There’s an immediate change in both of their body language—Hercules straightens his back, and focuses directly on George whilst Lafayette looks away, choosing instead to stare at anything but the man sitting in front of him. An awkward tension that hadn’t been there before suddenly blankets his small office.

To reiterate, George isn’t a foolish man—and very perceptive. He’d been in the business of psychology and therapy for nearly two decades, had been studying both the human mind and body for far longer. He was far too seasoned in his craft not to catch onto what was going on at this point—even if he hadn’t quite caught on earlier.

They’re talking about him. He’s the mystery guy.

“Oh. Oh, dear.” There’s a mixed bag of emotions with this. On one hand, George is elated. A sneaky part of him had seen it way earlier in the session, and had been hoping that he would be the mystery guy—his realistic side had just quickly buried that notion. But the idea that the couple returned his affections was making him giddy, making his heart skip a beat or two.

But… he was their counselor. And the current law said that pursuing a relationship with former clients was prohibited until five years after the last session. Nevermind pursuing a relationship with current clients. It was illegal, and moreover, it was morally corrupt. A part of him feels like he’s taking advantage of the weak point in their relationship—their conflict over whether or not to add a third person—in order for his own gain.

“George, _please_ ,” Lafayette pleads, sitting forward. “Please, don’t give me that client-counselor bullshit. We’re dropping you as our counselor today. We never even fucking _needed_ marriage counseling!”

“We did,” Hercules quickly interrupts, obviously sensing the way that could be misconstrued. “We weren’t _lying_. We _were_ arguing over whether or not to take this step with our relationship. It’s just… we resolved this issue a lot earlier. Like, three months ago. When _I_ first fell in love with you. This argument, though, it never made us unhappy, as we said. We just… we just wanted you to keep us on as your clients.”

“Boys…”

“Just, just hear us out, alright?” Hercules asks, scooting forward so that he can hold George’s hand. George hates himself for not pulling away but instead holding on tightly. This earns a release of some tension from Hercules’ frame. “Lafayette and I were unsure about dating a third person because we were always afraid that we wouldn’t find someone that could love us as hard and as passionately as we love each other. But we’ve been seeing you as our counselor for a year, and you’ve never complained. Not about how close we are, not about how passionate we are, not about how freely we love and talk and just… be.”

“Everyone we’ve tried to date before has had some sort of problem,” Lafayette says, placing his hand on top of theirs.

“But you don’t. And I love that about you. And… if I’m being honest? The only other person that can just get Lafayette to stop talking like that is _me_ ,” Hercules admits. “And the only people to bring our tempers down like you do is each other. You see what I mean? You complete us in a way that we didn’t know we could be completed.”

“Plus, you’re really sexy.”

“Laffy.”

“Babe, I’m not blind.”

Hercules rolls his eyes at his fiance’s antics but turns back to George. “You’re not our counselor anymore. You can… I don’t know, you can be with us. We _want_ you to be with us. We love you.”

George looks between the two of them and the spot on his desk where their hands are clasped together. There’s a lot of cons in this situation to consider—the obvious age difference, the counselor-client status between them, the fact that he could lose his job, the fact that they’re already _engaged_. But like he’d instructed them to do the week before, he weighs the pros as well. They both make him happy—he looks forward to seeing them every week. He feels comfortable with them. He loves being with them. They make him smile. He thinks about them constantly. Both of them make his heart beat fast. And, admittedly, they’re an attractive couple.

He sighs—there’s no denying the pros outweigh the cons. And in his experience, that method had always worked out for the best for him. “I could lose my license, you two. And my career is important to me. I adore you boys, I really do. I just don’t want to lose my job.”

“Wait, wait, _wait_ ,” Lafayette says, staring at him incredulously—hazel eyes wide. Both Hercules and George look to him with an eyebrow raised—though it’s obvious Hercules shares some of his fiance’s shock. “It’s not a ‘no’ because you don’t wanna be with us, or a ‘no’ because you don’t feel the same way… but it’s a ‘no’ because of your _career_?”

“Well, yes. I have returned your feelings—however reluctant to admit it I have been—for quite a while now. I just am not willing to risk my license over this,” George explains matter-of-factly. Hercules squeezes his hand and smiles warmly at him.

“Hercules, holy fucking shit, you owe me like, fifty bucks!”

“Shut up. Okay, what do we have to do? What board do we have to appeal to? What administrator do we have to talk to, to get you pardoned?” Hercules asks, suddenly serious again. “‘Cause if that's all that's preventing you from being with us, I’m willing to find loopholes and ways around.”

George looks between the two of them, attempting to gauge the situation. “You two are _really_ serious about this?”

“As a heart attack.”

George takes a deep breath, exhales and then throws all caution to the wind.

“Then we’ll make it work.”


	52. The Organization (Alexander & George)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The phrase ‘no news is bad news’ can officially go down in the books as being a lying bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Oh sure, blame the murderer! Y'all suck!
> 
> washette dominates literally everything i write smh

“Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” Alexander mutters, checking his phone for what felt like the millionth time within the hour—even though he already knows there’ll be no change. As he does this, he alternates between pacing the small enclosed office where he kept his base of operations or sitting at his desk, nervously bouncing his knee. However, occasionally the tension tightening the muscles around his mouth will erupt, and his hand with slap against the dark wood of the desk, the stinging pain grounding him. “Shit!”

“ _Relax_ ,” Hercules says calmly, though there’s a look in his dark eyes that says he’s equally as nervous as his associate—the only reason he _wasn’t_ on the verge of having a breakdown was because it wasn’t in his nature. He was cool, calm, collected at all times. Alexander envies the trait.

The clicking of the man’s knitting needles pick up with each passing second, and if Alex weren’t so on edge, he’d tease him about being the big bad muscle who likes knitting. As he usually did, whenever he caught him doing something so… unfitting considering his job description.  “Everything is going to be fine. No news is better than bad news.”

“I’m not serving twenty _fucking_ years for George’s twink, Herc,” Alex snaps, the rage bubbling in his chest finding a target in his longtime friend. The clicking of the knitting needles picks up again as Hercules’ jaw sets. Alex knows he’s on thin ice—Herc and Lafayette had been friends for a while before either young man got involved with the organization, and _Herc_ had been the one to introduce Lafayette to George.

“Lafayette is more to him than—”

The door to Alexander’s office opens, and the two of them immediately still—even Alexander’s pacing pauses, and there’s silence in the office for the first time since Hercules had come to give the accountant the news that both their Don and his boyfriend had been arrested. Could it finally be the police, come to slap the cuffs on and take them to prison? Could it be George, sliding in to give them the all clear to continue operations as usual? For fucks sake, could it be the stupid prostitute that had gotten them into this mess in the first place?

It’s neither. John and Thomas enter—Thomas’ face is completely unreadable, which is usual for his character, but John is pale and looks like he might be sick.

“I got some… news. They found that Lafayette was the last person to be seen with some dead pimp—they’ve also got proof that he was working for the guy. George has been released—not enough evidence to hold him, I guess. He’s on his way to get some cash to bail Laf out,” John says, his voice shaky. He looks as though he’s about to vomit, and for good reason—when people were forced to rot in jail, they got bitter. And when they got bitter, they began to rat. And none of them wanted to be sitting in prison because one of George’s whores turned coat.

All of them knew Laf would never do that—he was in the life, he knew better. And Hercules knew he loved George Washington too much. But reason always lost out to fear.

“Fuck!” Alex shouts, gripping the edges of his desk so hard his tan knuckles begin to pale. For a moment, even he begins to feel nauseous. Though whether it be fear or pure unbridled anger, is up for debate. “Fuck, that fucking _idiot—_ ”

Hercules gives a forceful exhale, finally setting aside his little project. Immediately, he zeroes in on the tall curly-haired man standing in the corner of the room—obviously trying to keep himself out of the center of attention. Rising to his feet, he crosses his arms and glares the man down with a look that could kill. “Thomas… _dead_ pimp. Do you know anything about that?”

“Wha— **Oh sure, blame the murderer. Y'all suck!”** he exclaims, mimicking Hercules’ stance and straightening himself up to full height. “ _No_ , I didn’t kill Lafayette’s pimp. Honestly! I hated that guy just as much as anyone else, but y’all know I would never kill without orders from George. I’m a _contracted_ killer, not a serial killer.”

“He _was_ beating him. Charles, that is. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lafayette killed him out of self-defense,” John says, sitting in Hercules’ old seat. He buries his hands in his face for a few minutes, and it seems as though he’s about to cry. Alex feels bad for him—but moreover, he feels guilt.

 _He_ had dragged the young man into this setup, had gotten him involved in all the pretty money and corruption that came with being made in a mob. John had only been working with them for a year—he had never even seen a day of prison in his life, outside of a few days of jail for a DUI. A part of Alexander already knows that if they wind up going down for this, he’ll be fine. George, Hercules, Thomas—hell, even Lafayette, who had been a prostitute on the streets long before he met any of them—would survive in prison.

He couldn’t honestly say the same for John.

“Or George killed him. Dude is head over heels in love,” Hercules says, leaning against a wall. “We’re not going down for this. No matter who killed who, George wouldn’t sell us out.”

“But an investigation might,” Thomas reminds, hands shoved deep into his brown slacks. “They look into it, they find out what Lafayette has been doing for this past year… they connect that shit to George and this whole organization is just a House of Cards after that.”

They fall quiet. He was right. Bail could only last so long, and Lafayette would eventually wind up going on trial for the murder—if they convicted, and everyone knew they would. A gay prostitute was an easy scapegoat for a dead man, and it’s not like it would be too far fetched of an idea. Lafayette had been working for Charles, and Charles beat all of his workers—that was common knowledge. One or two witness testimonies could bring the boy down. All of Lafayette’s friends and family and associates would be under scrutiny after that, and it would only take so long to wonder where all of George’s money to fund the young man’s lawyer fees was coming from.

As Thomas says, they were a house of cards after that.

Alexander actually thinks John sobs.

Time seems to pass slowly and quickly at the same time. Alexander doesn’t know how long they wind up waiting—the sun in the sky falls beneath the horizon, and the stars appear before there’s any change. It feels like an eternity, but in reality, it really is only a few hours. In the time it takes for George to finally arrive at the little accounting office, he thinks his wife calls him some forty times.

He can’t bring himself to answer the phone. She’ll know something is wrong, and she was already pregnant. He didn’t need her to stress herself out anymore.

When Washington finally does arrive, he arrives with the rest of their crew in tow. Angelica—who Alexander already knows is gonna lecture him about ignoring Eliza, as that was her younger sister—James and Aaron. The last to enter is Lafayette—looking small and scared in the silk robe he usually wore to entertain a client.

“This is an official, _unofficial_ meeting,” George says when Lafayette closes the door quietly behind him. Immediately, Alexander is able to note that he doesn’t look himself—he looks similar to John, as though he’s on the verge of fainting. “Second-in-command is gonna be in charge, as per the chain of command. I gotta get _him_ back to France. Alex, where’s the emergency fund?"

Lafayette winces at being referred to as ‘him’ and not as his usual 'babe'. Alexander shakes his head clear of the initial shock and confusion, and clears his throat. “Behind my family photograph. What happened?”

“They have circumstantial evidence. Being the last person seen with the victim makes you suspect, not a murderer. And there’s no evidence Lafayette ever touched the murder weapon. No semen at the scene from or on either man… all they have is a photograph from a party and the unreliable word of another whore,” Aaron pipes up, straightening his tie. Alexander had always envied him—he was a great lawyer and had Alex was jealous when he was hired as that meant George didn’t need his legal advice anymore. In fact, Burr had been the best lawyer in New York before getting involved with George Washington. Had the most clients lined up, seemed as though he’d have a long boisterous career in defensive law. He started losing clients when he first represented Thomas and got him off the hook for a murder charge. Became a social pariah within the law community. Which was just fine for George—he increased his pay and set his family up in a luxurious home in Manhattan. “We could _win_ this case, but George is _insisting…_ ”

“I’m not taking any chances. A year or two for prostitution is different from life for murder. I won’t risk his entire future,” George snaps, unlocking the safe with trembling fingers. He removes several stacks of cash, before closing it back up and locking it.

“ _He_ can speak for himself,” Burr stresses, obviously trying to do his best to get through to the man. The glare that Washington sends could kill an army of men. Burr cowers a bit, immediately losing the boldness in his voice. “I’m just saying…”

“Let’s be real. George just doesn’t wanna lock up his whore,” James scoffs, seemingly disgusted at the entire situation. The fact that James was still around was merely a miracle—actually, it was the result of Thomas cashing in all his favors with George. Everyone knew Madison had a strong dislike for not only Lafayette but the prostitution racket in general. He thought it was ‘tainted money’. They’d given up pointing out that _all_ the money they earn is tainted. “‘Fraid he’s fucking a rat.”

“James, you better shut up,” Thomas warns his friend, but it’s too late. George drops the money and hems the smaller man up by his collar, forcing him against the wall with a forceness so strong the plaster begins to crack. “ _Shit_.”

“You wanna say that _once more_ , Madison? ‘Cause I can make sure it’s the last thing you ever say,” George snarls, his voice dark with fury and his expression cloudy. Time stops, as everyone in the room freezes. They’d never seen him _this_ angry before.

Well, in a sense, they had. Once, nearly ten years before, when Benedict Arnold had ratted out half their organization in exchange for leniency on charges of his own. A _lot_ of their people had gone down—almost half of them, in fact. This included Alexander, who had served two years on petty misdemeanor fraud charges and Thomas, who got an assault and battery. George had been _furious_ —after narrowly escaping a life sentence and spending his five years of prison twiddling his thumbs in solitary confinement. So furious, in fact, that Arnold and his family remained missing to this very day.

But even through all of that, George had kept his rage suppressed and checked. He never lashed out against anyone personally like this— _especially_ associates. If he had an issue with someone, he sent Hercules to handle it and if he still had an issue with them, Thomas followed. And certainly, _never_ did he even do that out of anger. Every move was carefully plotted, calculated. He was a cunning man—it was why even when they’d reached their lowest, they’d dominated the organized crime industry for years.

Lafayette was apparently his Achilles’ heel.

Speaking of…

His voice is small and meek, accent thickened by distress and tears clogging his throat. But it cuts through the tension like a hot butter knife. “George, please… please, not over me. Not over _this_.”

This seems to snap the man out of it, and he releases James—smoothing the young man’s collar back down, adjusting his tie. Methodical ways of keeping his hands on him, a looming threat of violence. “You’re right. As I was saying…"

George turns now, picking the money up again and handing it over to Angelica. “Book two tickets for a flight to France. The first flight out of here.”

The woman nods her head once, shoots Alexander a glare that says ‘we’ll talk later’, and slips out of the room without a word. George turns to the gathered group of people and adjusts his own tie. “I’ll be in France for the next month. Angelica is in charge, with Thomas acting as her second-in-command. You all will continue business as usual. I have someone coming in to take over the prostitution racket for Lafayette. Her name is Maria Reynolds, and you’ll damn well show her the respect she is due. Alexander, you’ll take over my position at the casino—I’ve already informed them of your arrival. If anyone asks—”

“You’re settling your father’s estate in Virginia,” Alexander says, almost by reflex. They’d discussed something like this happening so many times—George having to leave the country to evade any heat. It was unusual, and Alex had never considered something like that actually happening. George was a leader, and whenever there was heat on the organization, he stuck by them dutifully. He always was around to pay legal fees, support families… it was probably why he’d never been challenged for his position. “George, are you sure…”

George ignores him. “Thomas. You need to handle Charles Lee’s body. You need to make sure that any potential evidence is long gone.”

“The body is in the city morgue, ain’t it? I’m a fuckin’ hitman, George, not a magician.”

“You’ll make it happen, and your kid sister will get that coveted spot in that med school,” George says, which quiets Thomas’ grumbling. Everyone knew Thomas would pull Satan from Hell if it meant his little sister, Martha, got everything she’d ever wanted or desired. They were all each other had, at the end of the day.

Alexander can respect that.

“I have to go,” he says, grabbing Lafayette’s arm again. The young man looks uncomfortable being manhandled by George is such a rough way, but he doesn’t say anything to protest. It’s probably out of fear—it was already made clear that James held some resentment towards him, he didn’t want to piss anyone else off by resisting. “We’ve got to be in France.”

“Good luck,” Lafayette mutters to everyone, and then the couple is gone.

“Fuck,” James finally breathes when they leave, pressing his head against the wall. “We’re royally screwed, aren’t we?”

 _Yeah,_ Alexander thinks, picking up his phone—he’s got to call his wife. He _needs_ to call his wife. _You can say something like that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s kind of like the mafia in the early 2000s, but also not.


	53. Haunted (Aaron/James/Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He did what he had to do. But they paid the price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A serial killer, haunted by his victims and their memories.
> 
> tw: graphic mentions of murder & rape, told from the POV of a serial killer.

“ _Aaron… Ronnie… Aaron… Aaron, Aaron, Aaron…”_ their voice taunts and teases him as he drives down the barren Texas roads, his dark eyes remaining focused on the straight and simple highway instead of the presence beside him. He knows that if he stops, if he gives them even the _slightest_ inclination that he recognizes that they’re there, it will only fuel the fire of their torment. _“I_ know _you can hear me.”_

He has a brief flash of a memory—followed by several more, that attack him with sharp pains in his temples. Thomas, young and bright and only twenty-years-old—looking up at him with those brilliant eyes as he flashed the small baggy of coke in front of them. _“Want to take a ride with me?” “Where are you taking me, darlin’?”_ The only reason they ever even gave him a second glance in the first place. His brain conjures up images of a bathroom stall, of broken cries of pleasure and pain in his back as they raked their nails over his skin.

 _“You remember?”_ they snarl, their breath warm on his face—smelling of vodka, always their drink of choice. He wants to tell them that they’re not real. He keeps his eyes on the road, instead. _“You remember how you fucked me and told me you loved me? You don’t hurt people you love, Aaron!”_

Another memory. Nearly six months later, in the small apartment he rented out just for the two of them. The tears in Thomas’s eyes when they said that it wasn’t working out. That they wanted to live their life. That was he was too controlling. That they’d found someone new, someone that really made them happy. Someone they _wanted_ to marry. _Heartbreak_.

His hands on Thomas’ hips… then his ass… then his cock… then his throat. The fear in their eyes as they gasped for air, the shiny red nail polish on their fingernails as they scratched at his hands. How peaceful they looked when his work was finally done. Their eyes closed, their hair forming an angelic halo around their head. _Beautiful_.

 _“I didn’t want that!”_ Thomas is screaming now, angrily. There are tears in their voice, but Aaron knows it’s not real. _They’re not real._ _“I didn’t want to fuck you! You made me! You hurt me, Aaron! Why did you hurt me?”_

 _“Face it, Thomas. He’s selfish. He has no qualms about murdering us, but when we haunt his fucking subconscious, it’s a problem,”_ James now. He had loved James, too. When he’d moved from New York, tried to start things over in Virginia. There was too much heat in New York, too much suspicion on him for what he’d done to Thomas.

James had been a _good_ boy. He hadn’t deserved what Aaron had done… no one _ever_ deserved the things Aaron did.

There’s a blinding flash of a grocery store. The bright lights of the store, the nervousness he felt as he moved through the aisles—trying to remain inconspicuous, trying to deal with what he’d just done. Spotting the young man from across the store—the baggy sweatpants he wore, the gray beanie pulling back those gorgeous dark curls, the way the lights of the grocery store illuminated his dark skin.

“Beautiful,” he allows himself to mumble aloud, fingernails drumming against the steering wheel. Acknowledging the two of them is the worst thing he can do—especially considering the both of them are only in his head. But the drive is lonely and even if they hated him, at least there were people to talk to. _“_ You had been so beautiful. No other words to describe it.”

 _“Fuck you,”_ James retorts with a growl to his voice. Aaron can feel his breath, hot and angry, on his neck. _“Fuck you! I had a nephew to look after, you piece of shit!”_

James knew he didn’t like shouting—knew how badly he reacted to people shouting at him. _“Yeah, I know better than anyone. You stabbed me enough times for me to know.”_

Aaron blocks out the evil and anger with happy memories—it’s the best thing he can do when dealing with the two of them. He remembers reaching for the last pair of unripened bananas at the same time James had. A silly joke James had made, teeth shining. Aaron had laughed then, suddenly relaxed. The anxiety of being on the run for murder had dissipated and somehow he’d been smooth enough to get the boys’ number. It was unexpected. He hadn’t planned on falling again. Not so soon after his angel’s death…

 _“My_ death _? You strangled me, asshole!”_ Thomas snarls and they whip around to stare at James—their expression contorted in a sickeningly familiar look of shock that Aaron had seen before. _“Can you believe this fucking loser?! My_ _death_!”

 _“God, how were we so naive? He’s obviously some sick fuck, how didn’t we notice?”_ James asks incredulously, leaning forward from his spot in the backseat. Aaron knows that it’s not real, but the grip he places on the back of his headrest seeps into reality with a terrifying about of clarity. Thomas’s cackle that follows is torture—maniacal, crazed, _desperate_. They laugh and laugh and laugh and Aaron finally snaps.

“Shut the fuck up! Shut up! I loved you! I loved you both, I took care of you!” Aaron yells, over their crazed laughter. The two fall silent—a reprieve, all things considered—and hot, fat tears stream down Aaron’s face. “I… I _love_ you… I’m so sorry. I didn’t wanna kill you. I didn’t want to.”

More silence. Aaron swallows the thick tears in his throat and squeezes the steering wheel. The lines on the road blur together, and he struggles to keep the car straight. “I never wanted to hurt either of you. I just wanted to keep you with me, forever. And you wanted to leave me. Thomas, you should’ve just… stayed. Stayed with _me_. James, you should’ve never investigated their death! You should’ve never said you were gonna call the cops! I did this because of you two! It’s your fault!”

 _“You hear that James?”_ Thomas asks, their heels making a sound as they smack them on top of the dashboard. Aaron hurries to wipe his eyes. Their voice is monotonous when they speak. Dead, even. _“It’s our fault we’re dead.”_

_“Yup. Sounds great. It’s my fault I was stabbed thirty-seven times with a butter knife.”_

_“Guess that absolves you of all your sins, Ronnie. But there’s still one problem with that.”_

_“Enlighten us, Tommy.”_

_“Why the fuck are you having guilt hallucinations?”_ Thomas asks, their lips brushing against his ears. Aaron sniffles, wipes at the snot dripping from his nose with the back of his hand. He doesn’t actually have a real answer for that. _There’s no reason for me to be guilty, I did what I had to do. I did what I had…_

 _“Doesn’t matter if you did what you had to do or did what your sick perverted mind wanted you too,”_ James chuckles, reclining back in his spot in the backseat. _“You’re stuck with us.”_


	54. The Fight (Alex & John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander usually wasn’t so impulsive… okay, he’s lying, but still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person A punches Person B, and Person B kicks their ass. Person A wakes up in Person B’s house.
> 
> the beginning of a beautiful friendship

Alexander Hamilton is seventeen and drunk off of his ass when he challenges the widely known school scrapper, John Laurens, to a fist fight. It’s at the Lafayette-Jefferson twins’ house party on a warm Friday night, and the sight of his ex-girlfriend cuddled up to his ex-side chick had got him feeling more than a little bitter. The two were the perfect pair─smiling lovingly at each other while kids made out, danced and talked around them. He’d originally tried to drown the image of the couple in his head with the weed going around in a circle in the basement, but that had only made him reflect on his ended relationship with Eliza Schuyler more. So he’d tried to erase the scandalous, messy break-up with every drop of alcohol available to him at the house party… but it had only amplified the feelings of regret and longing in his chest.

Now he’s cross-faded, and itching to make himself feel better. If only the slightest bit.

Don’t get Hamilton wrong, here. He _knows_ that what he did to both girls was utterly and horribly wrong. Leading the two of them on, making each of them believe that they were the only ones in his heart. He knows that _he_ was the cheater, _he_ was the villain─neither of them were to blame. And then to not only post a full-page letter in the school newsletter but go on a long Facebook rant after Maria’s brother had threatened to expose both of his relationships to the public…? That had been a new low, even for Alexander. But goddammit, Eliza wasn’t supposed to _leave_ him over it. That had never been in the plan when he was high typing that ninety-paragraph long post. She was strong, and the kindest girl he’d ever had the privilege of getting to know. She wouldn’t turn tail and run at the first bump in the road. Not on her Alexander─that simply wasn’t in her character.

But she had. She’d turn tail and run right into the comforting, warm arms of his ex-lover, Maria Reynolds.

Poetic _fucking_ justice, right?

With all of this, one might be able to understand why Alexander’s ego is bruised. On top of all of this, he’s young, dumb and currently full of rum. So when he sees the states senator’s son standing on the Jefferson-Lafayette mansion’s lawn, all bright hazel eyes and glowing smile… laughing at some guy’s jokes and looking every bit as sweet and beautiful as Eliza had the day she met him? Well, he figures he can take his petty misplaced revenge on the handsome boy instead of his ex-girlfriend. After all, it was less morally reprehensible to hit a homophobic state senator’s son than to hit the sweet, beloved Schuyler sister.

So Alexander, in his drunken determination, staggers up to the Laurens boy and throws a punch. Other kids on the lawn immediately gasp and turn their attention to the boys─of which, the soberer of the two seems completely caught off guard. The hit had connected with his jaw, sent his red solo cup clattering to the grass as he stumbled from surprise. The kid he had been talking to─Alexander recognizes them as one of the twins, though his blurry vision hinders him from figuring out which one─steps towards John worriedly, putting themselves between Alex and John.

“What the fuck?!” Laurens cries out when he’s recovered from the initial shock. “What’s wrong with you, dude?”

“You’re what’s wrong with me,” Alex spits, tossing his own cup to the ground. “You walk around here, all high and mighty because your Daddy’s got money! Money he makes off of d-dis-dis-disen─well you know what I fucking mean! You’re a fuckin’ asshole, just like him!"

One Of The Twins steps away from both John and Alex, eyeing Alex with distaste while simultaneously getting out of the line of fire. Maybe it’s Alex’s words─which are obviously fighting words─or maybe it’s the rigid way John moves towards the shorter man, but it’s obvious they smell trouble. And so do the other students, considering a crowd has gathered around the confrontation. When Alexander looks around, he catches the soft blue fabric of Eliza’s dress and can tell she’s been alerted to the fight. He hadn’t thought about whether or not she’d want to see him fight when he’d been planning to start with John, but now he decides that he would. He wants her to see what he’s capable of. Wants to show off that even drunk and high off his ass, he can pick a fight with the schools best fighter and win.

He knows it’s probably not going to work, but hell… she may even come back to him.

“Kick his ass, John!” Angelica Schuyler’s voice chimes in from the crowding of kids, and this seems to stir the students. A cacophonous chorus of shouts and cheers come from the drunk or tipsy high schoolers, most in favor of John─seeing as how after ‘The Reynolds Incident’, Alex had become a significantly less popular student amongst the student body.

Seemingly spurred on by the shouts of his name, John finally takes action. He closes the space between him and Alexander and throws another punch─his fist crunching against the shorter man's nose. Alex hadn’t been completely expecting just how strong John is─beneath the baggy black band shirts, flannels, and sweaters the boy was known for wearing, it was almost impossible to tell. But apparently John does have a little bit of strength, and he isn’t some skinny emo kid like Alex had assumed.

The punch paired with just how drunk he is, sends Alex stumbling dazedly back and then landing flat on his ass. He doesn’t have much time to consider getting up, because John is straddling him in no time─fist after fist raining down upon any place that the Junior can hit. Alex’s face, chest, head, and sides all take quite the bruising before Hercules─Alex recognizes him from his US History class─manages to pull John up.

Dazedly, Alexander watches as Eliza kneels worriedly next to him and begins calling his foster parents to come to pick him up while John is congratulated and patted on the back. The last thing he sees before he blacks out is the cute freckled boy, massaging his muscles and staring at him with a look of concern.

Alexander comes to again in a completely unfamiliar setting, on a surprisingly comfortable leather couch that squeaks when he tries to sit up─doing nothing to muffle the cries of pain that emanate from him when he does. It seems as though everything on his body shouts against him moving a muscle. His head throbs from a mixture of a hangover and the pain from being hit─but the muted lights of whatever room he’s in help with the splitting migraine─and more blooms across his chest and face, with each movement. Alex doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know that he looks like he’s been hit with a truck.

 _What was I thinking? Fighting the best fighter in school?_ he asks himself in wonder, looking around the room. It’s obviously someone’s bedroom─a big one, at that. Alexander tries not to get too angry, thinking about how his and mother’s entire apartment could’ve fit in this one room. The bed is pushed against the wall, underneath a large day window─the sill of which is lined with expensive looking paints and brushes. An easel is set up in the corner of the room, an unfinished painting still resting on it. The walls are like snapshots of someone’s artwork─one wall painted to look like a young boy and an older woman. The young boy holds onto the older woman─and if Alexander focuses, both people almost look like John.

Another wall is more depressing, bleak. It depicts a thunderstorm, a car split in half by a tree. The beautiful woman from the last wall lays against the paintings roads, blood pooling from her body.

The third wall is John again, more recent. It’s a strangely realistic self-portrait of what the kid looks like today. He stands in front of a rainbow, completely whitened out eyes aimed upward and hair pulled up by a rainbow tie. He’s painted tears on his face, and in front of him, his hands are folded together─it looks reminiscent of those Mary, Mother of God candles that his mother used to keep around the house. There’s a date painted on a banner behind him, Alexander recognizes it as the date of their city’s pride two years ago. He remembers going with Eliza, the two of them painting the bisexual flag on their cheeks and laughing…

_Eliza…_

Alexander swallows thickly, sitting further up so that he can lean against the back of the couch. Eliza was a situation he’d have to try and remedy later. He needs to focus on why the hell he’s in John Laurens’ house. Rising to his feet─nicely enough, he’s able to keep the whimpering in pain to a nice minimum─he manages to stumble out into the hallway of the huge house. There are no stairs in sight, and if he keens his ears, he can hear people talking in the living room.

“Thank you again, John,” it’s One of The Twins. Now that he pays closer attention, it’s the French One. The Lafayette-Jefferson Twins had been famously separated at birth after their parents’ divorce. With one of the Twins moving with his father to Virginia and the other moving with their mother to Auvergne in France. The French One moved back after their mother’s death, and the two twins had been practically inseparable since. In his head, Alexander called them ‘The French One’ and ‘The Southern One’. “I would've kept him at our place, but you have to understand─”

“Mr. Jefferson is an asshole. I get it, Laffy. No stress,” John’s voice says. “Why did he hit me, though? Either of you know?”

Alexander inches further down the hallway, closer until he nearly comes to the end of the hallway and the voices are much clearer. From his position behind a staircase that leads to the second level, he can see the three huddled together in what is obviously John’s living room. A really big living room, with an expensive looking flatscreen and a gaming system. _Rich fucks._

The French One─Laffy?─leans against John’s shoulder. On the opposing couch, Hercules, from US History knits what looks to be a baby blanket. He was known to be the big scary football player with the knitting materials stowed quietly away in his bookbag. Alexander had actually _liked_ Mulligan─who seemed to balk at the football player stereotypes and just go with the flow of life. He certainly wasn’t just another one of those rich snobby kids like the others─his parents had money, but he also had a pretty big family if the group of people that nearly take up two rows of bleachers at his games is anything to go by. It’s too bad he’s friends with the Lafayette-Jefferson twins and Laurens. He seems like he’d be a really cool guy.

On John’s jaw blooms a purpling bruise, which─between alternating with a joint he and The French One pass to each other─he holds a cold press to.

“Nah,” Hercules mutters. “Eliza said he was _really_ going through it. I mean, the guys a huge douche, don’t get me wrong. What he did to those girls? The _worst_. But… well… Laf, you know better than anybody. Being a social pariah is tough on the brain. That feeling that everyone hates you… yikes. He probably had some sort of psychotic break. I wouldn’t take it too personally.”

“ _I_ was a social pariah because I was a cross-dressing genderqueer gay person in a small town,” The French One clarifies. Alexander still can’t tell the difference between them and their brother─the other one crossdressed, too… didn’t he? _Ugh, fucking twins._ “He’s a social pariah because of what he did.”

“Maybe the dude needs some friends. Someone on his side. The Schuyler sisters were the only three in school that he talked to,” Hercules mentions. “and that weird Burr guy. But now that he’s made an ass of himself, and hurt Eliza, none of them hang out with him. He’s always alone.”

 “He hates me,” John scoffs. Alex winces. He didn’t _hate_ John, did he? _No._ He hated his privilege, and he hated his homophobic asshole father for his conservative political views, but he didn’t hate _John_. He didn’t know John well enough _to_ hate him. “or my Dad. Either way, he’d never wanna hang out with us.”

“That’s not true,” Alexander splutters aloud, before realizing he’s supposed to be eavesdropping. All three of the teenagers whip their head up as he speaks, and he cringes again at suddenly having so much attention on him. Wincing slightly, Alexander limps out of the shadows and keeps his eyes on his dingy gray converse. They used to be white, but against the shockingly white carpet of John’s house, they just look dingy and dirty. “I don’t hate you. I’m… I’m sorry I punched you.”

“Were you listening this whole time?” The French One asks incredulously, eyes narrowing. The eyeliner around their eyes makes the glare otherworldly almost, as it seems as though they pierce through Alexander’s very soul with that look. He nods sheepishly. “Okay. That’s not creepy, at all.”

“ _Lafayette…_ ” Hercules says, glaring at them over his knitting needles. Lafayette snorts out their annoyance and takes the blunt from John whilst Herc returns his attention to Alexander. “‘Sup dude. You feelin’ alright?”

“Uh, _no_ ,” Alexander admits. Lafayette smirks at that, but John looks noticeably guilty. “but that’s my fault. Did Eliza called my foster parents?”

“She did. But… they went out of town. They said they’re on their way back, but won’t be here ‘til noon tomorrow. If you wanna go home now, we can take you. But Herc didn’t feel comfortable dropping you off at your spot and you might have a concussion or somethin’,” John shrugs, taking the blunt─really nothing but a roach now─and stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Sorry ‘bout that. I dunno if you’re asthmatic or not. Anyways, I’m John Laurens, by the way. In case you didn’t know that before you punched me in my face.”

 _“_ _Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette,"_ the French One says proudly ─then bursts out in laughter. They have a nice laugh, and its’ contagious─Alexander finds himself cracking a hesitant smile. “I’m _kidding,_ you don’t have to use all those names. _Gilbert_. But, dear God, if you can’t imitate a French accent, just call me Lafayette.”

_“Je parle couramment le français.”_

_“Oh, oui? Hm. Je pourrais peut-être vous pardonner d'avoir frappé mon ami alors,”_ Lafayette mutters, eyebrow raised and arms crossed─their smile falling from their face with the quickness. Hercules rolls his eyes at his friend.

“We need to keep you around for translating. I’m pretty sure Lafayette is calling me his ‘cabbage’ in French, but I can never be certain.”

“You’ll never know, _mon chou,”_ Lafayette teases. Alexander smiles a real smile. Lafayette looks like they’re going to say something about it, but then their phone buzzes. They examine the caller ID for a second before giggling and picking up the cellphone. “Excuse me. My _actual_ sweetie is calling. George… yes, _mon cher_ , I’m fine… No, _I_ wasn’t involved in the fight…”

Lafayette drifts away from the living room and their voice becomes faint until they disappear outside. When they do, John pats the couch seat that they’ve emptied. “Sorry about Laffy. They’re… protective of their friends. Thinks I get hit for enough shit, ya know? Whatever.”

Alexander shrugs it off, sitting gingerly beside John and trying not to cry out. If there was one thing he hated, was seeming weak in front of other people. However, the efforts go fruitless, as John gives him a cautioned side-eye. “Are you alright? I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to lose my cool on you like that.”

“I… thanks for being really cool about this. I was drunk and high and I usually am not so violent and I really don’t want you to think I’m a bad guy ‘cause I’m _really_ not. I’m just kind of impulsive, but then again all high schoolers are, am I right? Heh, so I’ll just be getting my car keys and going, thanks.” The entire speech comes out in one breathless sentence, and the awkwardness of it is punctuated by John and Hercules’ confused expressions. Alex fidgets in his seat, uncomfortable being the center of attention. He almost wishes he was still drunk─at least then he wouldn’t care so much about what they think.

Hercules chuckles eventually, returning to his baby blanket. And John rolls his eyes, already rolling another blunt. “Dude, it’s cool. But I think you’re gonna need this.”

And he smiles at him. A bright-eyed, warm, welcoming smile that floods Alexander’s cheeks with red. “Sure. So, your paintings are cool…”

* * *

 

**Translations**

  ** _Je parle couramment le français._ ** **-** I speak French fluently.

 **_Oh oui? Hm. Je pourrais peut-être vous pardonner d'avoir frappé mon ami alors._ ** **-** Oh yes? Hm. I could perhaps forgive you for hitting my friend then.

 **_mon chou_ ** **-** my cabbage/sweetie


	55. New Boyfriend (Aaron/Alex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Laurens doesn’t like Alexander’s new boyfriend. For good reason or not, is yet to be determined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Guess who made the evening news?”
> 
> have i mentioned yet that washette runs into everything i write? oh. washette runs into everything i write.

“I just don’t like him. I don’t like his vibes,” John scowls from their usual lunch table, glaring at the new ‘couple’ from across the grassy field. He had been in his ‘judgemental mode’ for nearly forty-five minutes, and it didn’t seem like he noticed that no one else cared as deeply about it as he did. From beside him, Maria looks like she might slam her head against the splintering wood of the picnic table if only to distract John from his newfound obsession.  
  
Said ‘newfound obsession’ being his long-time best friend’s new object of affection, Aaron Burr. The dude was actually a TA for some Freshman classes, and the RA for John’s dorm floor—which, apparently, is how the couple had met. He was a bit of a local superstar here at Columbia—his mother and father were a neuroscientist and astrophysicist that donated buckets of money to the school each year before their tragic early deaths, and he was widely hailed for finishing his undergrad in two years. It didn’t help that he was a roughly attractive man, with a serious look to his features and an air of graveness that followed him.   
  
In John’s defense, anyone could see why he’d be nervous about this kind of ‘popular guy’ dating Alexander—who once broke three knuckles in his hand during a fight, and whose entire diet consisted of coffee and spite.   
  
“You never like anyone Alexander dates,” Lafayette scoffs, looking up from where they’d been scrolling through their boyfriend’s Instagram. “Or any of us for that matter. You still hate my boyfriend, and we’ve been dating for nearly two years.”   
  
“I don’t hate George,” John scoffs, eyes rolling indignantly. Everyone looks at him at the same time, disbelief, shock, or annoyance on their expressions. Even Maria, who so usually defended her best friend even when he was wrong, can’t hide the obvious incredulity on her face.   
  
“Okay, you’re right,” the freckled boy eventually relents, popping a fry into his mouth. The man in question continues to stare at him—seemingly offended. “Dude. You’re a grad student and you’re dating someone who’s still an undergrad. It’s _weird_ , okay?”

Washington rolls his eyes and goes back to reading, which makes sense. He’d long since given up on arguing Lafayette’s friends into the ground on how it wasn’t ‘weird’ and how it was actually a common occurrence. They wouldn’t listen anyway. Besides, John’s already onto the next thing—nearly choking on a fry as he looks up.  “Everyone, shh, shh, here they come.”  
  
Thomas makes a noise of confusion. “No one besides you was talking about—”

“Shh!

Both Alexander and Aaron have crossed their spot across campus to approach Alexander’s group, both holding hands and Alex obviously chattering away about something or another. John can admit he admires Aaron for his resilience—he actually looks as though he’s keeping up with whatever Alex says, and doesn’t once interrupt the young man. It was more restraint than John himself was capable of showing.

“What’s up bitches? **Guess who made the evening news?”** Alexander says when he finally approaches their table, dropping his backpack on the table his circle of friends sits at and striking a pose. It garners the expected reaction—most of his friends either groan in dread at what Alexander could’ve possibly done to make the news and the few that don’t, obviously aren’t paying close enough attention. “I’m famous now, don’t touch me.”

 Aaron smiles warmly at him as he slides into the bench beside Lafayette—directly across from John. Alexander settles in beside his new boyfriend and leans his head on his shoulder. He’s quick to bury his nose into the cloth of Aaron's green sweatshirt and John resists the urge to gag. Or rather… is that _Alexander's_ green sweatshirt? “Except for Aaron. You can touch me. You’re comfy.”

“Thanks, darling, I’m glad that’s the only reason,” he deadpans, earning a bit of laughter from their surrounding friends. John maintains his impassiveness.

“Why are you on the evening news? I swear to the Heavens above, Alex, if you punched another bursar I’m going to punch _you,_ ” he lectures.

“Kinky,” Hercules laughs. Thomas and Aaron snort at the same time.

“He isn’t going to—” Aaron tries to interrupt, but he himself is interrupted by his boyfriend.

“Oh my God, can you guys like, _shut up_ , so I can tell you?” Alexander says impatiently, bouncing on the balls of his feet with barely contained excitement. John has to admit, the way Aaron looks at the boy with a sparkle in his eye and a broad smile on his lips _is_ kind of cute.

Hamilton’s demand for attention generally gets the group to focus solely on him—sans George, who goes back to trying to enjoy his book. John wonders what kind of book is so intriguing that he can’t listen to Alex, but whatever. “Okay, so, I was like, walking here, right. As I usually do. So anyways, I was doing my daily schedule—”

“Going about. You were _going about_ your daily schedule,” Aaron corrects with a bit of a cocky grin. Alex glares at his boyfriend, who chuckles lightly. “What? That was improper English!” 

“You’re lucky you’re hot, _nerd_. Anyways, I was going about my daily schedule and I heard this commotion. You know me, I love myself a fight. So I had to go see what was going on. It would’ve killed me if I didn’t.”

“It would’ve killed you to mind your business? Sounds just like you,” George muses aloud, not once looking up from the yellowed pages of his novel. It’s his turn to receive Alexander’s glare, but this time Washington isn’t having it. “You would’ve lived had you not seen the damn fight.”

“Stop interrupting! Anyways, this guy was just like… beating the fuck out of his girlfriend.” This is starting to sound and feel familiar. He remembers seeing something about the fight on Instagram—whoever was recording had done a pretty shaky job of it, but he can distinctly remember the shocked and badly bruised face of Maria Lewis when some green blur had attacked her ex-boyfriend. He had blown up her phone with calls and messages but still hadn’t gotten a reply.

Suddenly, Aaron Burr dating his best friend is the least of his problems. Maria Lewis took several art classes with him—she minored in art, despite being a sociology major. They’d become friends over the two years John had been attended Columbia University, and he had made it his business to make sure her abusive, asshole ex stayed away from her. Alexander and Aaron had previously been a welcome distraction from the worry he had for her, but now he just feels guilty he hadn’t tried to do more checking in with her.

“Is she okay?” Eliza asks before John gets the chance, and when Hamilton gives an exasperated sigh, “Sorry! _Sorry_ , please, continue.”

“ _Anyways_ , Aaron jumped in the fight! He pulled the guy off and held him in a chokehold until the cops got there. Fuck the police, by the way. The news asked me what happened, and I said my boyfriend just saved someone’s life… probably. Catch me on the evening news, bitches.”

John eyes the man sitting across from him with suspicion and distrust. Admittedly, he still thinks Aaron is just some prissy rich kid that gets passes for whatever because of all the money his family unloaded into the school—and while that may be true, he has to consider the facts. Anyone willing to jump into a fight—with James Reynolds, no less, who was known for being a damn good boxer—to help out one of his friends immediately landed themselves in his good books.

Sighing, he catches the other boy’s eyes. When Aaron raises an eyebrow, John offers a smile and a nod. And much to his surprise, Aaron smiles back.

“Alexander, you are the most self-centered piece of shit I have ever met,” Thomas deadpans. “Did you even bother seeing if the chick was okay?”

“Hey, asshole, how about you worry about whatever you have going on in life? I mean, I know it’s not much but damn. You can’t be that desperate for some business to mind.”

Both Aaron and John laugh together—obviously both knowing that trying to stop Thomas and Alex was as fruitless as trying to make them like each other—and John decides he doesn’t _too much_ mind the other man’s company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hamburr is a ship I have yet to conquer so here I am


	56. Sweet Things (George & Gilbert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needs to do something. He’s running out of space for all of these sweets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘You bake when you’re stressed and sometimes you give me cookies, but recently you’ve been giving me whole baskets each day. Now, I’m not complaining, but are you alright?’

When the young, attractive, charismatic baker—and his roommate, but obviously the Professor’s attention was consumed elsewhere—had moved into the apartment across from George Washington, he’d originally thought it would be torturous. For nearly a year the apartment opposite him had been left vacant—not many people wanted to live in an apartment where someone died, even if it was of natural causes—and he’d enjoyed a steady amount of peace and quiet. Even before the old woman that lived across from had passed on, there hadn’t been any commotion from her. She occasionally knitted him some mittens or made him dinner, but otherwise she kept to herself and George respected that. 

He expected, with two young college students moving in, he’d have issues with noise or parties or just general disturbances. But in reality, the two were awfully similar to the old woman. There were occasional get togethers that would get a bit loud, but otherwise they were a fairly nice duo. Especially the baker—Lafayette, George recalls his name is. He occasionally left cookies or pies or whatever other sweet things for the Professor—" _I stress bake, and Alexandre and I definitely don’t need this much sugar.”_ —and the other one watered his plants when he went out of town. Every now and then they’d invite him over for dinner—and unlike the old lady, they actually ate with him and enjoyed his company. They were good kids.

Maybe _that_ explained George’s minor crush on Lafayette, but that was neither here nor there.

Lately, though, the amount of baked goods appearing on his doorstep was becoming troubling. George was starting to gain a little weight from the amount of sweets he ate in effort to keep up—he couldn’t just _toss_ it, he didn’t want to hurt the boy’s feelings—and even still, his dining room table was cluttered with sweets. He wasn’t complaining too much—as the Thanksgiving holiday rolled around, he always had something to take to a potluck and it’s not like the pastries weren’t positively delicious—but it was worrying him. Lafayette had said that he stress baked, and George wasn’t exactly sure what was so stressful that he was making buckets of sweets.

 _Yeah. That’s a good excuse. I’m standing on my hot neighbor’s doorstep because I’m worried about his stress baking,_ George thinks to himself after rapping his knuckles against the door. This morning, on his way to work, he’d tripped over _two_ baskets of pan dulce. He doesn’t know if Lafayette somehow knew the sweet breads were his childhood favorite, or if that was just the snack of choice he was making, but there had become no room for them on his dining room table. And he had even started taking some to work to leave in the break room. It was getting mildly ridiculous… it didn’t help that he was actually worried about Lafayette’s health.

Alexander, Lafayette’s roommate opens the door. The bags under his eyes seem to have bags of their own, and his greasy hair is falling out of the messy top knot on top of his head. The young man blinks with dead eyes up at the Professor, before sighing and turning away. _“Gilbert! Votre petit ami est ici!”_

 _“Quoi?”_ Lafayette’s voice calls back, as George steps into the cozy little apartment. In contrast to the chilly weather outside, their place is warm and welcoming. He immediately breathes in the lovely, warming scent of whatever the young man is baking now. It smells familiarly of peach cobbler, and if George hadn’t had nearly five sweet breads today alone, he’s sure his mouth would water for a taste. “Oh! George! Hello, welcome! Did you get my gift?”

“The pan dulce? Yes, it was delicious, thank you. My coworkers loved it, too,” he confesses. Lafayette seemingly beams at these words, his eyes brightening. He turns on his heel then, beckoning for the Professor to follow him into the kitchen. Not knowing what else to do, George does as told. “I just… I came over to do a wellness check, I guess.”

“A wellness check? On me or Alexandre? I know, that boy works himself sick, doesn’t he? He goes to your college, _non_? You must see him around campus, you must see how poorly he treats himself,” Lafayette babbles, before turning around just as George is about to step past the carpeted threshold of the living room into the tiled kitchen. “Take off your shoes before you come in the kitchen, please. It’s just a personal thing of mine.”

Toeing off his loafers and taking a seat at the island where Lafayette is working, George clears his throat. “No. No, on you. Are you alright?”

Lafayette’s head whips up so fast he might’ve gotten whiplash, and the dough he’s kneading on the counter stills in his flour-covered hands while a frown marrs his features. Despite looking adorable in his little pink ‘embrasser le cuisinier’ apron and flour-streaked face, the look is actually kind of equally terrifying. “Why do you ask? What has Alexander told you?”

“Nothing, I just… I’m just concerned, if that’s alright. There’s a lot of baking going on and I was just making sure you weren’t overly stressed about something.” This was a bad idea, George begins to think. He shouldn’t shove his way into the young man’s business like this—not only was it extremely rude, but what if whatever Lafayette was stressing over was personal? What if he didn’t want to share it with his older, quiet Professor that only occasionally came around for dinner? What if George miscalculated the closeness of their relationship, and now he just seems like a prying creep? 

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me—” George, fortunately, does not get to finish this sentence. One second he’s staring at his hands in embarrassment and the next Lafayette is hugging him tightly, arms wrapped around his frame and nose sniffling into his sweater vest. Almost instinctively, his arms come up to wrap around the younger man. Unsurprisingly, he smells of vanilla and cinnamon. “—Lafayette? Are you alright?

“You’re so sweet,” Lafayette murmurs, sniffling slightly. When he pulls away, his eyes are tear-tracked and his face has sorrow on it. For some reason, George reaches up to thumb away some of his tears—which gets a small laugh from the young man. “You’re so sweet. I recently came out to my family. _Ma mère et grand mère_. And they told my uncles, who manage my father’s estate, and my uncles just… _effrayé_. They totally lost it. I’ve been cut off and I don’t even know how I’m going to pay my half of the rent next month and I haven’t been able to find a job and I…”

Suddenly Lafayette is sobbing again, pulling George in for another hug. Something in George’s heartstrings tugs, and he rubs soothing circles on the young man’s back in an attempt to comfort. He had little experience in dealing with emotional turmoil, but lots of experience with the situation Lafayette was describing. George had been where Lafayette is before—when he’d came out to his parents as bisexual. It had taken a long time for his parents to get used to the idea of him dating both women _and_ men, and in that time period, George had gotten cut off, too. He’d gone from being taken care of to having to take care of himself overnight, and that was a hard transition—going from financial security to lack thereof. If Washington was still in that position now, he’d stress bake, too.

Wait a minute. Stress baking…

“Lafayette, it’s going to be okay. I think I have a solution to your problem,” George says, pulling away from the hug again. He reaches over the counter to get some paper towels and gently wipes away the tears on the younger man’s face. “I know someone who owns a bakery, and you’d be a wonderful addition. I’ll give her a call. Just until you get this sorted out with your Uncles.”

This means having to call his ex-girlfriend, Martha—but it’s a small price to pay to stop the constant stream of baked goods littering his counterspace and table. And if it makes the young Frenchman happy, then that’s just the proverbial icing on top.

Lafayette sniffles again at his suggestion, wiping away the remnants of wetness from around his eyes. There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, and George breathes a small sigh of relief. It wasn’t the end of the world. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. You’re a… ahem. You’re a great guy. A great person. I’d help you out anytime.”

This grants a smile, and the young bakers face breaks out into what can only be described as pure brightness. Washington, despite himself, smiles back at him. His heart thrums a little at how happy  Lafayette is now that there’s a small solution to his problem, and he realizes a millisecond too late that this might become a problem. “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much! I think this calls for a celebratory pie, _non_? Alexandre! I’m making a pie!”

“Whatever!”

George chuckles and turns back to Lafayette, who goes about turning the dough into a pie crust. There’s a tension that has slightly dissipated from his shoulders—and though it’s not a permanent fix to all of the young man’s problems, it’s obviously taken some weight off his chest. “Does this mean I should stop expecting baskets of sweets?”

Lafayette almost looks offended. “What?! No! Expect more! A repayment, of sorts.”

And despite the inevitable high blood sugar and weight gain, something tells George that he won’t mind it too much anymore.

* * *

 

**Translations**

_**G**_ _ **i** lbert! Votre petit ami est ici!_ \- Gilbert! Your boyfriend is here!

 **_Quoi?_ ** \- What?

 **_embrasser le cuisinier_ ** \- kiss the cook

 **_ma mère et grand mère_ ** \- my mother and grandmother

 **_effrayé_ ** \- freak out/freaked out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I think I'm kind of... done with drabble prompts. i'm gonna see if I can get it to sixty, but then i won't post them anymore. i wanna focus on other stuff, and i don't think anyone really reads these anyways. they were fun, but yeah. anyways, i (hopefully, if i can maintain muse) have a washette arranged marriage fic i'm working on (i'm really excited for that one) and i want to do a prison au. it'd work similar to drabble prompts, but it'd all be in a single verse and have a few set otps like hercria (mulligan x maria), washette, and hamliza. so yeah. anyways, hope you enjoyed


	57. Intruder (Alexander & Angelica & Eliza & Peggy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why was Angelica being deemed the crazy one here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘I swear, he was unconscious when we found him.’ ‘Found him? What do you mean found him?’

“... Why the fuck do you two always pull shit like this?” That’s the first thing Angelica asks when she steps into the home she shared with her siblings after a long day of running her ass off for big-name executives and finds the small, sleeping frame of a—actually really dirty—teenage boy crashing on her brand new white couch. Greasy black hair curtains his face, but the hoodie and jeans he wears are caked in mud—as well as the pair of dirty sneakers on his feet.

Honestly, whatever shenanigans Eliza and Peggy were up to—or rather, that Peggy had pulled Eliza into—she was not in the mood for. Her feet and back throb with pain, she’s got a headache from being yelled at all day and all that’s on her mind is a nice warm bubble bath to hopefully soothe the stressed muscles in her back. Possibly even those final few episodes of that crime TV show she enjoys so much.

All of these plans are immediately cut-short when she’s greeted by her two younger siblings standing over the unconscious—seemingly homeless—frame of a younger man. Peggy acknowledges her first—raising their hands in defense and shaking their head. **“I** **_swear_** **, he was unconscious when we found him.”**

 **“** ** _Found_ ** **him?”** Angelica pinches the bridge of her nose and tries not to lose her entire mind. The pain in her temples intensifies, and she honestly considers hitting the two of them upside their heads. **“What do you mean** **_found him_** **?”**

“We came in from school and he was just… there. On our couch,” Eliza explains, perching gently beside the sleeping boy's frame and gently moving his hair away from his face. He doesn’t look like he can be much older than Eliza herself, with a youthful face despite the bags hanging beneath his eyes. Maybe he does need the sleep. “I dunno. I feel bad for him. He looks really tired.”

“You mean to tell me a stranger is in our house and you didn’t call the police!” The oldest Schuyler sister shouts, trying to maybe yell some sense into her siblings. It doesn’t work—all it does is make the two of them look at her with confusion, and the throbbing in her head to turn into a deafening pounding. She groans in pain and sits beside Eliza—moving the sleeping kids feet.

“Angelica, it’s not like he’s gonna rob us. He’s just napping. I think he just got confused,” Eliza muses, suddenly defending the strange sleeping intruder on their couch. The look on Angelica’s face must become almost comical, because the corners of her sister’s mouth tremble—as though they’re about to break into a grin.

“H-how did he even get into our house?” Angelica asks in exhaustion, at this point having given up. A part of her knows she should be more scared of this entire situation—someone had broken into their house and violated the small sense of safety and security she tried to blanket her siblings with. She needed to probably call the police to file a police report, or maybe even wake the dude up and kick him out of their house. But her headache—more like a migraine—refuses to allow her to think straight for more than a second at a time, and the kid wasn’t an immediate threat as of now.

“Peggy slept with their window open.” Angelica doesn’t look up from where she’d bowed her head with weariness, but judging by the tinge of laughter around Eliza’s voice—Peggy hadn’t wanted their older sister to know it was technically their fault a stranger was sleeping, covered in mud, on Angelica’s white couches. Angie can hear the two scuffle, and when she opens her eyes, Peggy has raised their arm to punch Eliza. When they catch their sister looking at him, they quickly lower their arm and eyes.

“It was really hot! I just forgot to close it this morning.”

“Alright, alright. _I’m_ going to go take an ibuprofen,” she eventually relents, rising to her feet again and moving past the two standing in front of her. She winces with each step, the stabbing in her feet making her wish she didn’t have to come home and deal with things like this. “Wake him up, let’s find out who this total creep is that climbs in through bedroom windows.”

Angelica disappears for a total of ten minutes—the time it takes her to get an ibuprofen, slip out of the heels that stab at her feet, and change into jeans and a t-shirt—but when she returns, it’s almost as if it’d been an hour. The young man is awake now—surprisingly alert for someone that, just ten minutes ago, had been in a dead sleep—and gripping a warm cup of tea. He’s chattering aloud animatedly with Eliza, who seem enraptured by every word. Great, as if there weren’t enough problems to deal with, Eliza was going to start crushing on the boy who invaded their privacy.

“You gave him _tea_?! He broke into _our house_!” Angelica exclaims because that’s the easiest part of this whole situation to unpack. There are so many issues with the fact that this strange kid is on their couch, covered in mud, sipping tea after breaking into their home that the fact they served him some of her good tea is the biggest thing she’s mentally capable of addressing.

“Oh my God! I’m _so_ sorry about that, by the way!” Alexander explains, setting down his tea mug. “I’m Alexander Hamilton! I didn’t mean to break in! My best friend lives a house over and I got drunk and usually, when I’m drunk I’ll break into _his_ house—”

“So you have a habit of breaking into people’s houses?” Angelica interrupts, and the boys’ face flushes. He looks down at his mug of tea and picks it up again to take another sip. “Can you give me one good reason I _shouldn’t_ call the police? Aside from the ‘I do this all the time’ reason, please.”

Alexander clears his throat and stands, setting down the teacup and shoving his hands into the pockets of his mud-caked hoodie. “I really am sorry. If there’s anything I can do to repay the damages I will be _one hundred percent_ willing to. I don’t have any money or anything like that but I can like, do stuff around your house, or something. I should probably get going. But John Laurens is your neighbor, he’s my best friend. Just like… tell him to get in contact with me should you need anything.”

“Why are you covered in mud?” Peggy asks, their head tilted in curiosity. Alexander stops midstride towards the door and turns to look at them his eyebrow raised in confusion at the question. “I mean, how drunk did you _get_? And why on Earth were you _day drinking_?”

“Moreover, you look like you’re underage. Where did you get alcohol and why weren’t you in school?” Angelica frowns, realization dawning on her slowly. “Oh my God, do you have a home?”

“What?” Alexander’s face flushes, and he sticks his hands in his mud-caked pockets with relative nonchalance—pointedly avoiding the faces of either of the three. Angelica winces at how comfortable with being dirty this boy is, but if he’s homeless, it makes a lot of sense. “Yes. Of course. I have a home… a group home…”

“Oh, my God,” Angelica says at the same time Eliza does, though there’s a considerable more amount of sympathy in her sister’s voice than hers. She had an orphan, sitting in her home in the middle of the day, covered in mud, and now there were no parents or anyone to call to come pick him up. Meanwhile, Eliza is fawning over the young man—practically distraught at the idea that this young boy only has a group home to return to at the end of the night.

“Is there anyone who we could call for you?” Eliza asks concerningly, guiding Alexander back over the couch to sit. The boy looks a little distressed at all the sudden fuss and concern, but complies with her. Angelica tries not to stress out over her now-ruined couch. “Anything we can do to help?”

“He. Broke. Into. Our. House,” Angelica tries to stress through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth, but Peggy slaps her arm and glares at her. “Oh, now I’m being the rude one? You’re coddling an intruder!”

“Shut up, Angie. Poor dude just got confused,” Peggy hisses, before settling on the other side of the boy on the couch and pulling their cellphone out of their front pocket. “We can call your buddy, this Laurens? You can borrow my phone.”

Angelica pinches the bridge of her nose and turns away—towards the kitchen. At this point, she didn’t need a glass of wine. She’d need the whole damn bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alex accidentally gaining two people that worry over him while angelica stares in confusion in the distance should be a meme


	58. Prom King (Angelica & Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Thomas has changed. Maybe he hasn’t. Either way, it’s been eleven years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of dubious consent, use of drugs
> 
> Prompt: 'Why aren't you inside?' 'I could ask you the same question.'

_House parties are overrated._ That’s what Angelica tells herself when Eliza bursts through her door one Friday evening, babbling excitedly about a house party that her crush had invited her to and pleading for her eldest sister to come along with her. She wants to tell Eliza to have fun, and stay home to work on her Senior project—but the idea of letting her sixteen-year-old sister run off to a house party without anyone to look out for her rubs her the wrong way. Call the girl overprotective, but she had always felt that as the eldest sibling, it was her job to look after her sisters. Even when she’d much rather do literally anything else.

Still, Angelica can’t help but dread attending a party. She used to love them when she was new to High School. Her popularity had made attaining an invite to a party almost too easy, and she was usually the life of them. The girl everyone wanted to be friends with, the girl everyone wanted to talk to. But one night, being the life of the party had backfired on her. Ever since then, she tried to avoid house parties—the only ‘house parties’ she went to anymore were fewer parties and more kickbacks, with small groups of people that she actually trusted.

At least, she muses, she knows the kid throwing the party. Well, ‘know’ was a strong word. They used to go on playdates when they were little—but then his father moved him to Virginia, and they fell out of contact for a long while. He’d moved back during their Freshman year and become somewhat of a sensation throughout their high school—it seemed as if he’d come from nowhere, but he’d already been voted Homecoming King for four consecutive years and was gunning for prom king. Star basketball player, amazing cellist… kind of cute. Angelica would’ve tried to be his friend again, had he not had a nasty reputation of being a womanizing snob.

Now he was probably throwing a party in a campaign to gain votes for Prom King.

When they pull up to his house, her suspicions are confirmed. Posters boasting ‘Vote Jefferson Prom King’ are plastered outside of the home, with a picture of the boy in question smiling. Someone had drawn devil horns and a mustache on one of the posters, which went to say how well that campaign was going. A big magenta banner has been strewn across the front of the house, above the doorway to the entrance, and a boy in a grey hoodie is handing people fliers as they enter—Angelica tries not to feel bad when one of the boys he gives one to throws it back out onto the lawn, with a bunch of other crumpled fliers.

Alexander Hamilton—Eliza’s aforementioned crush—is outside when they pull up, and he bounds over to open the young girl’s door as soon as he catches a glimpse of Angelica’s car. He’d had a crush on the eldest Schuyler once upon a time. When he was a little shy eighth grader and she, a Sophomore. He’d been all pomp and arrogance then, smooth words and bright eyes. She’d almost actually fallen for it. _Almost_. But then she’d seen how Eliza looked at him, and besides, she didn’t date middle schoolers anyways. Angelica had always tried not to think about how he was ‘settling’ for Eliza—the thought made her feel dirty for allowing her sister to crush so hard on him.

“My dearest Angelica,” he teases when she exits the car, and she rolls her eyes at his flirting. Some things never did change, no matter how many times she said ‘no’. “and the best of women, Betsey. I say I am in good company. You look gorgeous, Betsey, did I mention?”

Eliza flushes. She was young, and Alexander is handsome. Angelica isn’t surprised that she buys into his flirting, hook, line and sinker. It’s cute, how she looks at him like he’s her moon and stars. Cute, and simultaneously dangerous.

“Hey, _Hamilton_ , keep your hands where I can see them,” she half-jokes, half-scolds. The young man raises his hand defensively, though there’s a toothy grin on his lips that tell her as soon as she turns her back, he’ll be ignoring all of her heeding. Deciding to grab a drink—she’ll need it, dealing with him—Angelica slithers her way inside the house. It could more accurately be described as a mansion, large and looming over the rest of the street. Angelica was no stranger to big houses—before her mother had died, her family had had a big house like that. Fit with butlers and maids to cater to their every need. Their father downsized when Mrs. Schuyler passed on, saying the house felt too empty without her big spirit to fill it up.

Accepting the flier from the small boy, she pauses before the flicker of familiarity clicks—James Madison, she finally recognizes. He’s a Senior, too and the aspiring Prom King’s best friend. She thinks it’s a shame the boys got his friend standing outside handing out fliers, and she says so.

James shrugs, though a sheepish smile forms on his lips as he hands her a flier. She thinks she may have been the first person to actually talk to him tonight, which is sad. “I don’t really like parties. At least, this way, I can help him out.”

Angelica doesn’t hold much conversation with him after that, tucking the flier in her back pocket and disappearing into the throng of drunk high school students. The music in the house is loud—something with a lot of bass blaring through the surround sound speakers in the living room. Girls have pushed the furniture out of the way in the living room and pulled their boyfriends over to dance. Alcohol is free flowing, and as students drink more they lose their coordination and spill—obviously, considering how her combat boots stick to the hardwood floor as she makes her way to the kitchen. At least several people have already passed out, and the night is still early. The party had all the telltale signs of becoming a rager—she just hopes Eliza isn’t planning on sticking around for that long.

In the kitchen, someone has set up a game of beer pong. She recognizes one of the teams—Charles Lee from her AP Calculus class has teamed up with John Laurens, and judging by the amount of cups still on their side, they’re _dominating._  Angelica watches as she mixes herself a drink, cheering along with other spectators every time someone gets a shot. She’s about to take over for one of the girls on the opposing teams—she’s obviously drunk, and her partner is obviously becoming annoyed at how poorly she’s doing—when she spots him.

 _Aaron Burr._ He’s managed to blend in with the crowd of kids watching the game of pong, with his dark hoodie and even darker eyes. He’d always done well at blending, remaining unassuming to anyone that didn’t know better. He’s got his arm thrown around the shoulder of a young girl—a girl with the same curly locks she has, the same bright eyes, the same naivety and innocence. She can’t be any older than a Sophomore, maybe a Junior.

Angelica’s jaw tightens, the grip on her cup crumples the red plastic. Memories of nights long ago, nights that she’d tried to suppress in her memory. Flashes of arguments, of red solo cups and small bags of white powder that made her feel good. That made her stop arguing with him. That made her stop saying ‘no’.

Angry tears well up in her eyes and she turns away from the game, suddenly needing some fresh air. Aaron doesn’t notice her as she turns away, eyes scanning for the nearest exit. The house is rapidly becoming too hot, and the atmosphere is too heavy. She pushes through the kitchen, through the cramped space filled with drunk teenagers, until she reaches the backdoor and slides it open.

The night is cool, and the air on her cheeks is nice. Trembling hands reach into the back pocket of her skinny jeans, retrieve the crumpled pack of cigarettes she always kept on her. Picking out the ones that had broken, she tries not to think about Burr. Instead, she thinks about her Dad. He really wanted her to stop smoking before she went off to college—her mother had been a bad smoker, and lung cancer had taken her away from them. He figured that if she broke the habit while she was still home with him, she wouldn’t smoke when she went away. But the small rush of nicotine calms her fraying nerves, and the smoke she inhales replaces the stuffy air from the house.

I’m gonna quit, she thinks, taking a drag off the cigarette. I promise.

“Gotta light?” a gravelly voice says from behind her, and Angelica turns around—her lighter already outstretched. She doesn’t expect to see the man of the hour himself, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. Oddly enough, Thomas looks so much different from the little kid she used to have playdates with. His once unruly curls have been tamed into a well designed afros, and the hipster glasses over his eyes lack lenses, so she cans see his hazel eyes. Plus, in the time since he’s been in her kindergarten class, he’d accumulated a nose and eyebrow piercing. He’s… admittedly, attractive. Angelica can see why girls fall for him. “Thanks.”

Angelica nods, realizes she’s been staring, and takes another puff off of her cigarette. The trembling in her hands slows, and she finally relaxes. The two of them stand in awkward silence for a minute before she sighs and flicks a little ash off the end of her cigarette. **“Why aren’t you inside?”**

 **“I could ask you the same thing.** I like your lighter.” She turns back to him see him playing with the small gold box like a child mesmerized with a new toy. It had belonged to her mother. When he flips open the lid, the light immediately flickers to light. And when he closes it, it distinguishes instantly. He spends a few minutes, playing with the lighter before she snatches it from his fingers.

“You’re gonna run all the lighter fluid out, stop that,” she lectures, feeling motherly. Tucking the lighter into her front pocket, she cocks her head. “Anyways. I asked you first.”

Thomas shrugs, takes a long drag off his cigarette and blows the smoke through his nose. He’s quiet for a long moment before he finally speaks. “I don’t know. I thought that if I threw a party I’d feel better, but it didn’t do much. It’s crazy—how you can be surrounded by so many people and feel alone.”

Angelica nods. She of all people could understand that. Ever since her mother’s death and her nasty break up with Aaron, she’d always felt more alone than she didn’t. Eliza and Peggy did their best to get her out, keep her company, prevent her from closing in on herself. But even so, she still sometimes felt like background noise to the main show that was their lives.

“I’m Thomas, by the way. You look familiar, but I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Angelica,” she mutters, finishing off her cigarette and tossing it into the lawn before crushing it under her boot. With her cigarette finished, there’s no reason for her to be really be outside. But she knows that Aaron is inside of the house, and she can’t exactly go home without Eliza. So she stands there awkwardly for a few moments, hands shoved into her front pockets. Thomas must notice her inner conflict.

“If you wanna stay outside, I don’t mind sitting with you,” he offers, his words a whisper. Angelica cocks an eyebrow at him, and scans his face—searching for any ulterior motive. She had entertained a ‘bad boy’ once before, the boys with the reputation of being womanizers. The boys with the pretty eyes and the soft voices that dragged her down into the abyss with them. She had made that mistake once before, and she’s not going to allow herself to make it again.

Even if Thomas used to be friend. Even if, standing under the stars of the evening and looking at her with those big hazel eyes, he looks more like the scared first grader that got his lunch stolen than the ‘uptight, womanizing snob’ that people described him as.

“No,” Angelica says, gathering herself. It didn’t matter. They were Seniors now, and a lot changed in eleven years. “I’m gonna go find my sister. Good luck with Prom King, Thomas.”

The smile he gives her is faint. “Thanks. Try to have fun, Angie.”

Angelica snorts at the nickname. She hadn’t been called ‘Angie’ since her mother died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that ending is… shit. but i didn’t know any other way to tie it up and I worked on this for like a week.


End file.
